Andi Leigh Writes

I'm tired of the crying. I'm sick of the song. My faith is surely dying When it claims It did no wrong. I'm sick of all the whiplash, The pain's gone to my head. Our fight is at a standstill But I'd like to go to bed. I wonder what will change When I sort through it all. To move past my trauma. Break down this sturdy wall. I'm hoping for a future where Its voice does not control. But I have to see—it's me— Depression does unroll.

Plant reaching tall Within my veins, Feeding off of Brighter days. Soft vibrant colors Break through black. The flower essence Brings me back.

There is a place I'd love to go, With special teas I'd wish to drink. To go there is A gamble though. Forever missing In a wink. Fast eyes approaching To the edge— No track of moving time. Desperate arms reach Through the hedge. To borrow what is mine.

A journey trapped in lace. A woven road behind. A manner twisting crossing fates One invested can't deny. A troubled thread brought frayed. Stitched patches sworn undone. An eroding path may seem displaced, Torn seams may be respun.

Have you ever sat On a rooftop Looking out at an Endless field? Lemon-scented linens Fly while hooked On grounding clothesline. Flowerbeds bring bees To a safe distance. They work soundly. Firewood is piled in a bin With weatherproofing. Overhead you see clouds And remember for a Moment— This is a daydream And you are in the city.

I wait in hidden rooms That are secret within me. When instead my thoughts Should pour out like rain.

Awareness is lacking Don't you know? Moving too fast to think About present times. Those around us die, Their lives unknown But do others care? Too worried about What nonsense awaits. Strangers on the bus Are nothing but Background noise. Fear keeps us from Each other daily But do we want to Know each other? Maybe? Not really. It is a nice idea To be more present In our time. And when it's too late Is when we'll realize.

I tried to share with you The mystery of me. And you glared me down With sharp judgemental glee.

Take a salty breath. Hear the gulls overhead. Think back very closely Of all those who are dead. Rocky space below— In a nook carved by the sea. Bottom of the cliffside Is a growing tree. Roots snaking rocky shards, Watered by the storm. Fed with fallen sailors Foamy waters do deform.

Red marigolds were her favorite. Now they line her silent grave. Buried with a flower crown— Known to be quite brave. She liked her coffee iced. She hid her blues inside. She spoke of getting better— Now she's buried hillside.

The cold weather, dancing, Reminds him of years That slipped between his fingers; Leaving him with only Himself. And when he turns around, Does he see a friendly hearth Indoors waiting for him? Or is he left out in the frigid air, Gasping for a love unconditional? Are faded faces taken for granted Like daylight sun? Or can he make note of the longing While the rain or snow muddles His lonely days? Without them, he is left Sunless and bleak; Wishing the ice would melt But it spreads and thickens.

Numb activity Filling voids, Breaking hearts, And leaving wishful thinkers To their own agony. At the end of the day, It's cold as they face Themselves in the mirror. Numb activity Spreads indifference Throughout fingertips, The heart sinks. I wonder what will make The heart sing?

When I see your eyes, I see the you That was so kind. Buried behind the bags And lines, Is a morsel of dreamer Left behind. Though fully wise, And aged like wine, It's heartbreak knowing The inner child Has died.