Andi Leigh Writes

There is pressure Behind my eyes—they Don't seem to want to open. A jolt of thoughtful ties, Making sleep what I want roped in.

Winter-born rain floods roads And washes away the rush Down diligent storm drains. Now brought to be idle With ourselves, we may ask— Where would I love to be? What need is there to storm Through life, when the rain Will deliver its own difficulties? With a tired and silent moment Our day is shattered, the truth We hold glows apparent. A cog is not the only thing We happen to be—but I know We can be like the falling rain; Following one outlook too fast And when the destination Is reached, we splatter.

Tall and thickly-needled shrubs Are grown—for privacy—a perimeter, To keep prying eyes cast to the Greenery, but is it enjoyed by the one Nestled on the branches opposite Side? Maybe someone with a similar Mind is needed to share the solitude. Or one may prefer the lone air That is solely for them within their Silent garden kept secluded.

On occasion, I can breathe control, Remembering who I was. It may happen When the earthquake of my heart Presses me to see without An avenue to deflect, Pushes me over the line where I Then plunge Into all of my truths—they catch me.  Some may be things I want  To keep asleep, But when control is guiding my hand Steady, I can peek at them A little longer.

Hit with a wall of heavy eyes And lax shoulders, The mind drifts into surrounding Sounds—music is no match For the dreamful wave.

Differences in mornings— We mourn the lack of  Variety. We wield the sword to simplify Or to complicate. So we don't need to cry— Dampening our vision Of a medley-filled hourglass. There's always a route Branching from where we stand.

Veins are wild roads and my rage  Drives through them; Meeting dead ends, boiling my blood. Rotten roots collide—I cannot sing. I'm paved with lost destiny or Halted dreams that remain soldered To any burnt-out lamppost abandoned. Signs simmer, metal clanging On hellish asphalt as selfish drivers Run them over—they won't look back. My thumb points out, looking for a chance To steal, a ride to take, but I have An inkling that it won't do any good. I'm on my own roads—I see A sign I missed in my cracked Rearview mirror and I've come to Realize that these roads have my ownership. I am the one who paved them, while I think Others run me down and destroy; Flinging cracks into my hard work— Boiling me from the inside. Most importantly, I now know I Could've stopped it with roadblocks Manifested by the self-worth that I Chose to bury deep in the woods—realizing It is not too late to dig it up, wash off the Dirt in the oncoming rain, and then Promptly drive away.

Water under the bridge But I see no reflection. Where am I now? Am I fragmented in the Light that breaks With the water's rippled Surface? Rocks skip through me And I'm unsure if I Feel them. Or maybe I feel it all And choose not to see.

Can we consume fulfillment On a shimmering day Instead of rallying rain clouds? This morning, I maintained The golden hour within a cup; Quiet in my hands. I drank from it, and breakfast Suggested that the rain Would never come for me, But once that cup was empty The moody clouds stomped and Rolled over my soft blue infinity, Turning everything I wanted To hold on to for as long as I could into empty nothings.   All I can do is banish the rain; Keeping my glass of potential Nestled within my reach.

Now past fifty days of writing And I'm fighting for a change; Some kind of excitement To fill my free days. And I need to get believing That I won't stop What I came to start. I beg for inspiration to press The keys to make my art.

We are in an intermission And we revel in the slow burn. A drink of importance, An awareness of the matters We typically neglect—we don't Ever mean to, but our rivers are Often stopped by boulders, Which we find our way around. Not now though, we sail through— Basking in individuality that we Refuse to set fire to.

Through my glasses, In the lens, I see reflections of what's Behind me. I can see the crackle of Tree branches against Plastered blue infinity. I have this stamp Of a window, A thumbnail, invisible. Then light fades, taking The small scene with it.

The color of home, Fuzzy comfort— Warm in the chill Of an achy heart. Embracing eyes That bare your soul; Sweet in the light That illuminates Your softness. Dark and rich, Revealing passions. The color of home, Always.

I love a quiet room; Where pins drop And curtains rustle In the open window. Alone with the self, With sorrows, With the good times— Lasting friends That catch you When you fall, inevitably. And a quiet room is The best for them To join you. Today, I had No such thing in my Loud surroundings. Which is okay too, since Being kept busy Is the next best thing.

A sparrow's or A plane's wing; It doesn't matter, They cut Through the air, Both with Destinations In mind. Their speed is A grand sight From the ground. I watch, Planted in the soil Of barren earth. Blind to the truth That I may be Just as grand And lush.

I settled in a chair and slumped When alertness waved goodbye. I urged it to return. Don't leave! It seemed to think For a moment, standing distant, While lethargy weaved Its fingers around my eyes. I stood up on my feet, Rushing wakeful electricity back. My eyes still felt the remnants Of the rejected.

A snow day, mostly snowless, With little concern. Yesterday I worried but today I'm grateful. So we spent part of the day Out feeling free, tying up  Loose ends, and dreaming of The future. Let's do this again; Laughing at the arcade, taking in The lights and sounds. Winning And losing at the claw machine. We'll come back here, I know it.  I can't wait.

A moth of early spring fluttered By our listful ears But we are snug inside A snowglobe; Barricaded from leaving too early To go about our chromatic lives. We are stagnant, freezing over Unlike the dusty rain. At least it can descend before Drowning our day in a pretty scene. We are tired of the emptiness, The white walls of outside. We want to drive with windows down And smell the grassy fields. But all we are allowed to smell Is the dampness of the cold.

I am an ant in a needle eye. A spot taken, oh so small, But filled with my eternity. A passage blocked By my being—content With feeling whole. A nook to fit daydreams; Not grains of nightmares. Insignificance unattached From a speck worth a world. 

Orange vanilla, Sweet citrus. Mild like the river On a sort of sunny day With a cream sky. Bubbles rising like A smile. A stuffy nose mostly Gone; Down the river Lead by warm notes.

There's a cloud in my head, Expanding, a smog. The fog from outside Pours into my skull. My work is done and now It's time to slow down And sink like mud. I'll climb tomorrow.

On the morning of the Festival, Mallory zipped down the stairs from her bedroom and skipped straight into the kitchen. Her parents sat at the table; both sipping on cups of hot coffee. "Good morning!" Mallory's smile made her mother light up. "Oh, look at you!" Tilly rose from the table to pinch her daughter's cheeks. "Oh... All grown up! Are you excited for your first Festival?" Mallory nodded. Her eyes sparkled. "Don't forget to stick with your friends, okay?" Her father opened the morning newspaper. "Luckily, we're having the perfect weather this year. Unlike the last. Not a cloud in the sky! And tonight is going to be beautiful." "I won't leave Christy's side. Brandon is going to be there too." Now you be careful around Brandon," her father sighed. "He doesn't strike me as the type to stick his neck out for his friends. Always puts himself first." Mallory rolled her eyes and gave ...

A new pack of playing cards made an adequate birthday present.  Dennis had just had his 9th birthday party and was ready for the kids from his class to go home. He did enjoy their company but he knew that the few that had shown were just in it for the cake and ice cream. His mother owned a popular cake shop and the kids were quite aware of the excellent sweets. Dennis sighed when his classmates sang happy birthday to him. He didn't dare to look around at the group of people so he locked his gaze onto the flickering candle that sat, slightly crooked, on top of the cake his mother made. His mother took pictures, his classmates looked bored but hopeful for cake, and his aunt, uncle, and cousins clapped and cheered loudly for his special day. Through the uncomfortable hype of the moment, Dennis disconnected from his wailing guests, and for a short while, it was just him and the candle flame. "Make a wish!" His mother gestured with one hand while the other fastened the camera ...

The burden of a horrid crime had been placed upon my head. Placed upon my conscious and I knew not of what they spoke. Their claims ran wild through the cobbled streets and illuminated brighter than the burning oil before being extinguished by the lamplighters every early dawn. What was it that I did? What warranted this hatred, this utter betrayal from the populace I had served all my life? Threats were the plague of my mind since my night of accusation. Such deep threats. They chanted from their hungry mouths and sang of dogs that would meet me at my end when I'd be thrown to them in the street. But they did not know of the truth. A dog was responsible. A strange occurrence but it was the truth they wished to ignore. A dog sent from Hell and one that was only visible to my eye. It appeared that night, that disgraceful night I could not recall. I remembered the dog and then I remembered what felt like endless sleep. It appeared to me by candlelight while I savored the sound of the...

One morning, I got out of bed and noticed that there was a slight itch on the back of my head. I ran my fingers through my hair and felt a tiny bump resting on my scalp. "What is that?" It stung when I touched it. Maybe it was a bug bite? I went on with my day, ignoring the small blemish on the back of my head. No one would see it anyway.  I won't touch it. Later on in the evening while I was eating dinner, the bump began to itch again. I had already forgotten about the bump as the day went on but was instantly reminded when the itching started again. I pressed my index finger against my scalp and felt for the bump. It felt bigger than it did that morning. I scratched and it helped relieve the itching. When I took my hand away, I noticed a bit of blood and tiny flecks of skin under my fingernail, then I put my hand back to the bump to see if I was still bleeding. There was a bit more blood but I managed to stop the bleeding quickly by pressing a tissue against it.  Maybe ...

There was a bold Sundown-colored cloud In the shape of a bird With its wings outspread. Its beak pointed up to space And its feathers were painted By the falling sun. A warm scene in the darkening Sky, a reminder to fly, And form shapes of our own.

Cat eye like an orange, Squeezed—pulp dripping With lives unseen By human sight; unable To know Where the fruitful cat May go.

The weekend will rain on us; Hopefully trickling— We'll have time to taste repair. Tasks will be spun and spooled, Then again the weekend after, And on and on. There will be a morsel of us Amongst ourselves. I can't wait to meet them.

Warm air on a playground— Nostalgic sound;  Laughter taking budding flight Like unearthed autumn leaves; Red, yellow, orange, and some green.  Once hibernating under winter quilts  Then carried by the spring breeze. The rhythm of bright sneakers Shuffle down a plastic slide— Sticky hearts come alive.

Achy bones, Bend, grind, snap— Yielding dust, bottled—added To the crumbling sands,   Ground up bones  That had made bread For a lifetime Before being rinsed away Like sawdust in rain.

I hold a murkiness within, as everyone does, and I Am unable to tow Fresh stars through sometimes; Cord slipping through Scabbed palms and fingertips. It takes a while, sleep perhaps; A cupful of submerged time alone With the shadows that pine. New stars in the morning wait, The murkiness will clear, But stars will burst and die.

Amber flower fixed in the sky— Warming thawing faces And dropping longer days In present lives. Seeds peeking for a purpose  After bleak serenity— I too am awake, fancying Change that will shoot Its roots deep. Looking up at the flower, We are spun into brilliance.

What lives in finite time? A bird's nest invaded, eggs Squashed and eaten. Sands wash out and crumble, Churning to the blackest ocean. What lives in finite time? Bloated roadkill baking In the detonating sun. Moments that may last forever In a liminal collective. What lives in finite time? A glass jar, buried miles in gray Hardened clay. Letters written but not sent And stuffed in junk drawers. What lives in finite time? The flickering of a bulb Tightrope walking until its Breath gasps, giving way. A cliffside always found. 

I thought I'd be blind by now And maybe  I'm blind in other ways— I hope it isn't true. Vision worse than years before, And I hope my aging mind stays open to progression;   No excuses to stay In watered-down bliss. I thought I'd be blind by now But I can still see;  In more ways than Just through declining sight  Behind frames.

It is early as I write Almost an hour past Midnight. A young day has begun And sleep won't Take me. So I read, Glance out the window at The starless sky, And churn restlessly As I watch 1 a.m. loom overhead. Multitudes await in unwritten Hours, but in the meantime I'm lost between night And day, With a heavy body And eyes that refuse to close.

There's a star resting On the lofty mountain; Perched as a lone candle Would be on a sprinkled  Birthday cake. The mountain layered, Like chocolate dusted With powdered sugar And the star glows In the evening misty sky. I wish to climb where It is—to see it up close. Maybe someday I'll be a candle too.

Wine glass— Sediment dusted, Pieces cast scornful nights, Red-stained carpet soaked, Collecting damage That waits to shock the future. A wineless stain, for the Once white fibers do not Matter. The gnawing crunch Of the glass underfoot Is at the bottom of the heart's Black hole.

I heard whispers in the rain. It made me walk a little faster; my pace ran out of sync with the splashing of the puddles and I heard the whispers again. Was it a voice calling out? Perhaps trying to get my attention? I looked over my shoulder as I walked down the damp sidewalk. I saw nothing in the rain but the headlights of slow-passing cars. Turning my eyes forward, I quickened my stride.  Water beaded and rolled off my coat but some droplets managed to soak my hair and drench my glasses under a hood that may have been slightly too small. The rain came down heavy and rivers ran along the curbs and flowed down into the storm drains. Through the rushing of the rainfall, I heard the whispers again. I jerked my head over my shoulder once more and needed to squint as I was briefly blinded by more hurried headlights. When my vision focused, I saw it standing by the bus stop that sat across the street.  It stood there transparently; tall and bloated with a contorted smile. It was w...

I work tonight but This morning I'm free. I'm my truest self; home Napping, drinking matcha tea From my strawberry mug That reminds me of my Vietnam Veteran uncle who Passed away last June.   I'm my truest self; uncombed hair And uncut nails, I'll fix it before I head out.  I want the weekend To move like honey—I start a new Job on Monday. I'm excited but I still want to bask in my free time, Remembering little things about The past and becoming sad, then Needing to remind myself that I'm moving in a direction full Of bright lights and maybe they'll Blind me but maybe I'll be okay. Like always.  No matter the distraction,  I still work tonight, So I should take my freedom And savor it like the green tea In my strawberry mug that holds Tears as well as reminders.