Andi Leigh Writes

We can tangle like wildfire. Our smoke will stain Each other's lungs and the Light we feed between us Will contain the ash of Everything we ever burned.

Why does the wind knock on my door When I told it to only visit with warmth Draped around its neck? I am not fond of the frost that it wears. I will not be the bearer of sympathy. The door will remain locked Until the wind learns to seethe. And when that becomes too much, I'll barricade the door it knocks on And wait for it to simmer down.

A raft can hold us, with uncertainty, In the swamp that devours minds. I don't know if I'm prepared For the sticks and branches to break. I don't want to swallow the horrid bog Or be blinded by the cruel sludge That will sink the twigs and our bodies. Don't say we can't resurface— We should always be able To come up for air.

Masterpieces In hidden places Will continue to  Illuminate Dark corners, Even when the world Walks by.

Through a plastic shade the light Peels through, Taunting the indoor gloom With its willful energy, Scoffing at the struggle to lift Even a finger—why should Anyone rush— Impatient trials are not Going anywhere, at least for now, And the bolt on the door Will unlock when prompted to.

The long night ends and the winds Call to me, warn me, That I am not yet awake enough For the chaotic voices Of the dreadful hours ahead. I do not think that sleep was able To take hold of me. I am a corpse. I thank the winds for their drifting News. Why must the night turn short When sleep does take hold?

Over the hills The rivers drown the thick Disgust that the forest holds For the plains. Why do the plains seem so Neat and tidy While the jealous forest Twists more and more The further in you go— The hills laugh At the obvious disdain. If only the forest knew how The plains felt, while flooding All the time, Maybe then the forest Wouldn’t be so bitter And the hills wouldn’t have To keep the peace.

The morning has a to-do list Before a cup of coffee is even granted. Roll out of bed and go— Everything is waiting and there are No stops for pleasantries. A moment cannot be kept, especially When you are the last priority. Maybe make that cup of coffee first And pick up the list when able.

There are no stars in the daylight. Aren’t we all equal No matter the journey? Some will burn out quicker Than others. Others will shine as long as they Need to—even though they’ve Had enough. We need to be here for each other, Making sure flames don’t die, But don’t do it for the night alone.

There is no time For talking When the dead Can’t find their mouths. Every utter— Food for the worms— Tough For diluted tongues, When topside Buries the vocal.