Words and sounds are connected to the images seen

The eyes tell tales before tongue hisses

The December child walks bare to the unknown roads foreseen

The wit of the mind does not mind the matter

And what does, does not matter

Perception limns a breakage at intervals

Everything is blurred after a dream

Even family.

There is no experience in the world
      that I cherish more
            than hearing my father play the piano.

It's imperfect and beautiful and
                                                       sounds
                                                          ­     like
                                                            ­      home.

The notes are often choppy, and there are pauses
      as his mind turns over what keys to play next --
            sort of like our lives as a family.

We're awkward
      and have
            broken             periods,
but altogether we're making music.

Every breath a note,
      every laugh a chord,
every      "I love you"      a harmony
            that
only our family
      can hear.

And there's staccato! arguments,

and there's fortissimo days with pianissimo nights,

and there's repeat on repeat on repeat,
      making our lives seem
      constantly       andante.

But life is like a series of randomly placed fermatas --
unpredictable, yet musically enriched because of it.

            And I wouldn't want it any other way.

Who am i?
It a question that stumps me all the time,
I am a girl..........i know that much i think
Sometimes i am sweet, other times bitter as lime.

I believe i am sane,
I mean insane,
Honestly, Its all the same.
But who am i?

I am mistreated because i am not like others,
I am different they say,
What's wrong with that?
Isn't that a good thing?
I don't know i guess we must all be the same in every way.
I might be that one rare black rose stuck in the thorns that no one bothers to touch because its too much work to get it out,
But i hope i am special too,
Who am i?


A girl going through identity crisis,
Her emotions shattered like broken pieces,
There's no dry places left to cry,
Who am i?  

                                                               ­                                  Jonesy 2016©

What if
          I
                                                  ­Fall
In
              Love
With
      A
       Poet?
What if he mesmerises me
       With his lines?
What if
        His words touch me
        And kiss
           Through my skin?
     What if i search for
Him
Everyday
And
      Travel through
              His words
    And meet him
                  Somewhere
       And
We
       Become bare
          And he caresses
Me
          With every
      Stanza
And
       Here
           I am
                Again
Searching
           For him,
    Wanting
Him
        With
                 All
                      Desire
Waiting
             For
                 His
                   Next
                      Poem
                         To
                            Take
                             ­ Me
                          To
                       His
                   World
                Where
             We
          Will
        Lay
      Bare
   What if
               I
                  Fall in love
                      With
                  A
             ­         Poet?

© Evna-Luna