The Daily Belle

You never know how cruel You can truly be, Until someone hurts you Just enough

“Not all who wander are lost.” said the man, his back against the wall, accompanied by a large pack sitting next to him which also served as his only table companion. The Pub went silent. The room  turned and faced the man. His hair was a shaggy brown that curled at the tips and hovered above tempting green eyes, and his skinny pink lips sat  crooked  on his face in a smirk that featured his dimples. His look encouraged the men about him to counter his statement. The green-eyed traveler fingered the glass of amber ale in front of him, concentrating on the swirling liquid inside. The silence had left the room feeling stagnant and overly warm until a rosy man with cheeks scarlet from drinking began to laugh, jostling his own glass and spilling the liquid on the table. The green-eyed traveler began to laugh as well and soon  the  room flamed and roared with a boisterous laughter. “Where are you from laddy?” slurred a man with a thick Irish accent. “I’m from New Zealand.” the traveler

I have come to the conclusion that I am a pacer  Crafting carefully worded thoughts And following up with how these thoughts look Or at least how they make me look. Plastered on an imaginary wall with a plastic shield  So that when that inevitable feeling of regret comes And I want to take my -once private- thought down  My hands are incapable.  My cuffs are plastic  With the exception of a keyhole,  That’s just missing. 

How funny are these vines of Ivy Who linger on this wall Basking in silence Praying not to fall They cling and wrap themselves quite tight To make a leafy green house right nice The house itself is old The age my gosh Who knows But it’s made of brick and stone So the vines have something to hold As time goes by And the world grows cold The vine will have the stone And in my right nice home I will have you to hold

Thicker still the trees go the farther down the murder row In dreams roots weep a silent prayer still wondering who's been left up there Unaware and unprepared in the deep bog they feel agog and the grog descends Onto the mother hens who snoop and squawk and squint Not understanding the thoughts of twitching legs and the shells still left in beds Too soft of ground and no real heat but to hard and the boy begins to shrink The movie plays never loud or clear but wild and only into the left ear The plot it thickens and loosens and shrinks and grows In time his nose will get bigger while his confidence grows smaller And all the while still getting taller His mother kissed goodbye Her tears still flying And when he returns his legs are taller and his hair is longer And the sharp golden buttons of his green perfect coat are clean and shining An embrace of somebody Or the crumple of a sheet These women feel no respite.

Stabbing myself in the eye with my pencil, Taking to my legs with shers, Plunging into the Arctic waters and watching the ice form above my head. Letting the car drive into the tree, Or over the bridge in a very Thelma and Louise fashion Watching the candle touch the drapes, And the drapes clinging to the wall. Pushing over bikes at a roadhouse, Licking my lips after a cool glass of arsenic, Sailing over the edge of the earth into a fiery volcano complete with sharks, crocodiles, and piranhas-all man eating. These are things I’d rather do than live in a world without coffee. Anyone seen my cup?