Andi Leigh Writes

I'm feeling the brightness of spring, Collecting dandelion seeds, Counting the flowers in the grass So green, the ivy creeping near the Fence edge, some petals wilting With the taste of summer—going To sleep until the next time around. I still haven't made a garden But I may soon plant something that will Appreciate the dwindling heat of Autumn months. Until then I have things To plan—things to observe.

I can be a mess—an inkwell spilling Over a wooden tabletop That had thoughtfulness Spread over pages but now they stick to The sanded finish.  Fibers and words Distressed—I know to reach for Fresh paper and ink;  Some days are better Than when I mourn the eyesore, But I can still make with my fingertips And the jumble becomes unnoticeable.

Cotton temperament, Emerging gingerly Through shifting times, Caring about very little; Only making room for What delivers quality. There isn't any more space For smoke to steal When the days shine In every little thing. 

Maybe we share too much And maybe some really want To know While others prefer secrecy Over the spotlight Straining their eyes—the blue Light, damaging us every time We choose to share or Peek at what others have To offer. May we realize We must protect ourselves Even with a disconnect. We might be kinder To ourselves that way.

An itch I shouldn't scratch. Skin bleeding—I don't care, I fade into the pain—elated trance, Before realizing the torment. It's too late. The damage is done, Might as well keep scratching, Despite the blood and Broken skin. I try to stop, clipping my nails Short, but I'll still find a way. I beg myself to stop. Maybe one day.

In a cold room— Dehumidifier whirring, In another, Silence stirring outside Of a mind working To sweep out fog. Wake up—wake up, please. It's only Thursday but My head is still spinning Through Three Mondays ago.

Death of the fool, Birth of the greedy— Drowning, Sorrow. Warm in the bath, Dry off the sweat— Agony, Pleading. Change hardly shows, Life does a flash— Over, Waiting. No more to give, Drawing of straws— Melted, Deceiving.

I wish I were a peach But then I'd rot away. Imagine— A young blossom hopeful, Beautiful, gulping the sun. Sailing in the breeze as Branches grow fruitful. Unripened and truthfully Soft to hardships. Bracing storms and smoky Heat. Droughts have not stopped Me from fulfillment. I am pastel. I am mature—no longer a blossom. I fall from the tree—branches Cross above me, a web in my eyes, A view to show me that I'll  Never reach the glittering sky on the Other side of the stretching limbs Enclosing me. I am in the grass and dirt, With rocks as friends and ants I must shoo away. I will rot. I will be okay.

A web in nettle gives a ring. A home where moths Mistakingly cling. Though dear spider lurks Not so far—dewdrops And blood are strung bizarre.

We are in an odd world. I itch to smile at its colors But some days they are blurred; Mixing together, smearing mud Across a body we experience Then escape once— Not more, only once, But for now the assortment of shades And hues are beyond our control While we stay. Perhaps it's how it's meant to be— A striking display,  Appealing one day But grotesque after steps are taken. Maybe it's okay to walk backward To recall the familiarity—holding off What is unknown and unseen. But the odd world won't wait forever So at some point we must walk. Even if mud stains our clothes.

On an island of mulch in A concrete sea,  A tree waves In the wind—gentle,  Like linen Drying on a line, it is dressed In white petals;  Branches peeking Through the softness  It wears. Surrounded by what is  Man-made And empty, the tree does not Know emptiness— Even when its Limbs are draped  in snow Rather than  The pillowy flowers It may love more.

A teeming heart—thumping  faster than an upbeat song.   A practice To keep my spirits high, An antidote to keep The ice from shaking me.   I'm covered in layers, Not wanting to be seen, But I want to beam  And be evoked.

A drip in the dark, No peace of mind when A cough tickles you To deadly wakefulness. If only the rain that Drips—trickling in the Gutter and off the roof side— Could write letters for Illness to read, responding With its own drastic echo— Maybe it could rid The cough from lungs that Need a break—that need Mending, but the rain cannot Write and the cough Bellows deeper in the dark Against the quiet drip From the misty outside.

Illusion speaks and my ears Beg not to listen—they would Rather sink underwater, somewhat Safe from candied promises, my head In a bubble—though I can't help but  Eavesdrop on the whispers that entice, Even though I know they are only Bugs—maggots—that wish to Gnaw on hopeful, discontented skin, And I've been through this over And over—I'm tired of the teeth, The false path lined with sweets, And that little ol' something better That never seems worth the trouble When my ears fall for the trickery. So I'll keep my little bubble and plug My ears from the fluff—being simply Content with mindfulness and subtle Gems that already gift enrichment.

I will drop into the heavens, Get lost in the falling sky With clouds that hold no Answers—yet they tell me To keep searching, but I Won't find my truth or needs In the stars—far too dead With no concern for my Silly worries that hold as Little as the clouds do.

Devotion   Through a  Camera lens— Grace   In the heat of  Springtime As well as in  The ribcage. Colors prosper And are Preserved.

I cannot decide; I pray for change— Pray for things To stay the same. I'll light a candle in The night;  Hope whichever way Brings the light.

Gas station lights Flicker, Ants slump in a line, Rain falls to puddles That panic When cars speed by. The stench of old coffee, Folk getting by— The line of ants are Drowning while Cigarette smoke flies.

You are more than life. You are the cooling rain Outside my open window. I boil when walls emerge But there you are; Knocking them down, Reminding me that I am Occupied. You are the breath I take For granted—unconditional; Filling my lungs, Releasing my tears, Steadying me into a stream Of a much-needed blank slate. No flurries of inadequacy May stick, When you are my rain.

Frail smile Like an apple bruised. Stairs leading down, Never up. Benefit—dreamed With poor frame. Pick up a brush, Bristles thick—carrying The weight Of a heart favored.

A little soul Crossing roads And I slow To spare—death, It's not time, And I would Never dare.

The young flowers bloom But I shrivel in the heat— Scorching blossoms, Not from the rays of the sun, But from the untrust that Burns under my skin. Will I be anything but a small Seed? A piece of grass? An acorn chewed, buried, and Forgotten? It's okay if I'm never a watered Bouquet—happiest in a vase— Unaware of death claiming Cut stems.

We had fresh air Spring through our home, Rushing the scent Of lethargy out with it— Replacing the stuffiness With airy joy, And we were able To have peace of mind.

"What do you have there?" A soothing voice spoke to Micah who was busy making crayon drawings. He covered his papers with his hands and looked up at his teacher, Ms. Greene. Micah didn't speak so he simply stared at her, hoping that she would go away and bother another student. Ms. Greene smiled. "It's okay, Micah. You keep working. Can I see them later?" Micah thought for a moment. His fingers relaxed and he touched the grainy crayon lines on his construction paper. He nodded. "Great," Ms. Greene replied. "I'll check on you in ten minutes, okay?" She walked away, leaving Micah to his coloring. The first grader coughed as he rummaged through the crayon bin that sat on his table. He sat there alone. The other kids in class preferred to avoid Micah and all sat at the other tables in the classroom. Ms. Greene tried her best to get the other students to interact with Micah but it was of no use. Once she had Kiri sit with Micah during sile...

I woke up in a dim room While the light outside was hot And blaring— A sweet feeling Until I realized that the day had Mostly been slept away, but Maybe that is a message Being sent— Telling me to put myself First and rest, to stop worrying About what doesn't define me In the time where I am me and Me alone.  So I'll sleep again, And let the day drift by.  There will be others and time spent Well with myself is not wasted.

No sugar and a headache waiting— Knocked down for days, but Better times are just ahead while Sweetness loses its control and The headache was its last attempt— No more, no more, I'm fighting for The reigns, fighting myself for better Self-control and the sugar will Be too sweet and sickly for me. I'll break the habit and my body will Thank me—show me the results that I've been looking for; knocking a False friend down, revealing that it Was never there to make me truly Happy. I am done and the aches will Melt away with the sugar down the drain.

Ten minutes to the end— What do you do? What would You do if in ten minutes you Would churn away, to dust, With Death's hand on the crank? She awaits your ashes to sprinkle In her garden but you may Not be ready. There's plenty to do In ten minutes I suppose—though I think most of us would Hold our breaths until the churning Started—hoping that Death would Be merciful and give us something For the pain.

Maybe change is patient; Waiting for me at a bus stop I've never seen—never paid Any mind to, but now the signs Are apparent and they glow In the light of my clarity And willingness to be better. It's up to me to board And hopefully I'll have Enough change in my pocket.

Will you be there When Mercury falls, Stripping her of smiles. Will you be there to Bandage wounds, some You may have caused. Will you be there— Will she see you—against The world with her. Will you be there to Understand the meaning Of it all?

I sit in the distance and see A spot of chirping red That dots a white-dusted field— Another singing spot Joins the first;   They ponder the April chill And green grass floods.

There could be a knock on the door But I may not be home. It could be That I'm out in hiking boots, Getting lost in thought and on trails. It could be that I am inside— Maybe I'm too weak to let anyone in And I sit in the dark, hearing the pleas But I let the knocking continue Until it stops and I'm left alone. This could be what I want—an open Door leading to the woods, away From the struggle of knocking.

Sleep has my being On a string—lassoed With barbed wire exhaustion. I want restful hours in the Dead of night; heavy eyes and Dreams to replace me—let Me drop further, From midnight to mornings That let me open when my Eyes do. 

There's a cabinet somewhere, Stocked full of happiness— Jars of sugar to make the bitter Truth less harsh. This cabinet Contains paper—recipes on how To make a smile appear, But it may fade later like the old ink. This cabinet Has mental canisters cradling Candy but it may leave you with A mouthful of holes.

A dandelion in rain— Love In gray dawn, Conversing and Connection—solid faith In a future enshrined.

There's a crackle in my chest When I breathe. You have no cure—no one does, Just the connectivity of The earth will do—since this is Not a sickness that can be fought With anything prescribed, Only eased—calmed for a while. I stretch my arms up skyward To give myself away, But it's not yet time.

We may have nowhere we can go, With windows shuttered tight; Keeping us from belonging—keeping Us in berating storms, but at least I'm with you and you're with me. Together—with nowhere—we are The world.

I am kept in a bottle, A glass vial, Within an unbroken void. You may be too. We are cast out—floating Amongst Saturn's rings, Encased in glass Meant to keep our Fragments from colliding. Maybe they should, Collide that is, and burst Just like stars But instead of dying, We bring forth galaxies, All starting from sealed Bottles they thought We could never open.