Andi Leigh Writes

I am tired From the light  Washed gray, And my bones Feel like boulders— Let me sleep deeply Then wake up When the weather Is friendlier. And when I feel light Without burdened Shoulders, I'll know We're moving on.

We're at the start of Summer and I've barely Gone outside— Maybe just a couple of times— To walk and enjoy the trees, But all there is to do is work And sleep and work And eat and thankfully read But work—watch movies or TV In an attempt to recharge Because there is no energy left, Just enough to work, work, work, When I'd rather smell campfires And lounge around my home Without the bane of work hovering; Waiting for the clock to strike— Time to punch in! I'd rather not—but I'm sure Most of us would rather not, Yet here we are.

Thawed bread  On the counter, List of books to read Pinned, Cats eager for the Open door To let summer in. The gardener's  Mowing—our tall grass Gets missed, Uneventful days like today Are a welcomed assist.

It's getting late and heaviness Steps on my comfort. Pressure is long-lasting in My chest— Will it end? I want it to. I will get myself through the night. I will rise from the ground And meet the sun.

Ink may be spilled Before words can be written. And one may be left With a puddle on their page— A pool that speaks louder Than any written word.

The moon tells ghost stories While shadows speak the truth. There is power in a heart That can recognize its shame; Wanting to give the talkative moon New stories to share instead of Dwelling on what is now an echo. So let the shadows speak boisterously And know that listening is of value.

A ding on my watch; A hard day done With scratches to honor. Mostly unnoticeable But I tend to fixate On minuscule troubles. My imperfect timepiece Holds more identity; Marks to serve as proof That difficulties Were surmounted.

1 a.m. rabbit running through the dark, A thought in the soaked grass, a soul Free—in its own terms, And there are no cages in the night Except for fear, but the drive to move Through the rain brings bravery along, Something the rabbit clearly owns, While it may be lacking in others.

I was reading and then the rain came; Fast with no regard for the neighbors outside. Melodic chai lifted the pale teal even though Roars floated aloft and I hadn't been graced With a lightning show that would astonish me. So I returned to read while intently listening To the steady rainfall that dutifully watered my Potted herbs and the weeds in the yard.

Blankness  Found home in me And not even thunder Could cause a stir. The downpour battered My leaky roof And the sound was clarity, But now the hollowness Overpowers and I may Need more than  Thundering booms To jolt me from this Peculiar void.

I'll ghost for days And reemerge with an Ignited soul. Animated positivities, A new outlook on What's to be manifested, But this kindled shift Puts the present near Its grave, Allowing for the now to Slip into a blotted image, A mere apparition, When it should be Solid and most loved.

A bog in the head— Thoughts turned to soup And the tears don't flow Like they normally do. Fingertips numb at 6 a.m. and water feels Drier on the tongue. Smogged afternoon, Evening smoke— Translucent ideals make Way for blood flow. Gone tinkering for far Too long with nothing to Show— But everything shows. 

Sweet tea— Driving under Maple leaves. Grapes and Watermelon— Summer heat, By your side— No other place I'd want to be.

I am like clay, Muddy and pliable But I hope to turn To stone And be my own Foundation.

I see a heart soaked blue And it tastes of limes. There's turmoil brewed And we're counting dimes. Flavor warmly with honeydew— Engulf the hard times. We'll scrub the heart soaked blue, Breaking our paradigms.

The world can be an ugly thing And some will never know. They'll take blissful ignorance As far as it will go. Some will never see heartbreak Or sense the fading sands. Some will never frown and some Will never understand. The world can be an ugly thing And some will seize the day. They'll always hear the music And they'll never see decay. Some will be wrapped cozy, Spoonfed their happy end. Something I will never have; A reason to pretend.

Our tears are the rain, Our laughter is the thunder. Our lives are the storm and Our gales are full of wonder. Our dreams are the clouds, Our downpour leads to floods. Our sickness is the fog and Our dewdrops water rosebuds.

Streetlights and Inkwell skies— Dead stars twinkle Goodnight—goodbye, Before the sun will Roar and rise With the likeness of A dragonfly.

I can smell the basil While walking by  and the Sunflowers are strong— They have yet to die, But the chamomile is Unsprouted still And the cilantro Seems to struggle—ill. There are weeds knitted In the pots, I removed their web— That's what I thought. Some threads stayed Hidden and remained, At least some progress Is what I've obtained.

Clouds—appearing like a Smear of paint— Greet my restless eyes With pops of tie-dye Muddied with an illuminated Wakeful gaze. There is a piece of artistry To the early hours of my day.

I saw a pair of old cork sandals, Melancholic by the mountain road. Were they thrown out of a car As the owner drove by the Bold rocks and mountainside  Trees? Did someone Walk in them for a while, Then decide that they were Better off free, and Continued on their journey Without support?  Maybe not much Was there nowadays. But these sandals were present In a ditch of dust and dirt and Fallen pine needles and rocks, And I can't help but wonder How the poor things got there; Their travels over.

There is confidence In the palm of my hand, But I squish it every time. I need to know, need to realize That my own hand  Is what often Strikes me down, And I can hold it back at any Given moment,  Allowing myself A chance to feel what I Repeatedly take away.

I'm off to drift into waters Where nothing makes sense, While still feeling so familiar. There is a terror— Or sometimes a comfort, When the world is not your own But made for you, by you, And the only way to get there Is to doze and fade and Give in to the demands of The burnt-out self that longs For escape— I just don't know If I'll end up gleefully splashing In a pond or flailing in a Terrible ocean.

Sepia sky mixed with humming fog; Infuse my lungs with a youthful dawn. Soothe my ache with a quiet drive, Through the mist, I feel alive.

 There's a disconnect In me; I have this empty Feeling and I'd rather It not be, But through Untethered cycles, The cords are Flying free—ungrounded,  Here I am, A lone balloon, Over the sea.

 Dusk is casting shadows, The light is painted gold, And the birds keep taking Nosedives toward the  Paved and curving roads. Do they think the streets are Rivers? From above they may Seem blue, and they'd be Better off avoided—if The birds only knew.

Like an acorn fallen below A wooden fence, I am still within my shell. I am small and surrounded by Everything tall—like the Fiddlehead ferns that laugh And curl, or the red clover That brightens lush fields; I am a seed, starting from The bottom but I'll be complete One day—much taller than the Ferns and clover and even The fence which will one day Be waterlogged but I will Sip from the storms and I will be what others have said I would never be.

I'm thankful for the food. I'm thankful for the peace; Even though short-lived, It comes around again At least. I'm happy with the summer, Though I don't like the heat. I'm thankful for the moments Where I'm not on my feet.

My mother always loved it when I would look up at the sky. As a child, I would watch the sunset and be filled with glee when the stars would begin to peek out from their hiding place. The sky would grow dark and the stars would slowly grow brighter, speckling the canvas that spread above our secluded farmhouse. She would watch me, wondering what I would be thinking as I stared for a little too long at the stars (When I was eight I thought they were other planets with other people living on them and I thought that maybe someday we could visit one of these other worlds). She never stopped me from stargazing the evenings away. I would sit in the unkempt grass, listening to the crickets chirp while feeling the breeze tickle my skin. The stars would look down at me but they never made me feel small. They made me feel grand; like someday I would be able to be bigger than I was. I was only a little kid at the time. My mother would call me in for supper and I would have to peel myself from the...

The warm nights Have been lonely and the Empty parking lot is just A mirror held On the other side of a window That may as well be a wall. I've watched The midnight rain shoot down, Drowning the plants that Defy comfortability by Nestling in the cracks of The asphalt.  They live on, Unphased, but I don't feel So lucky. The warm nights are better When a barrier doesn't Keep us away From wasting our time In the burning sun. 

The evening is a mouse, Nibbling the day away And I'm still on my first bite. Prepared tomorrow May have to wait—I still Have a few mouthfuls of yesterday that I Haven't quite finished. There's a lot on my plate, But at the same time It's empty. It depends on how I Want to see it; If I'm willing to nibble, Or devour.