window of her soul

Autobiography 2nd Draft

She is made of sun flowers and unreasonable questions; she drinks the sky in her morning coffee while curiosity holds her hand. Sun dresses and over sized cardigans breathe most comfortable against her skin.Her lips are too passive when time calls to be bold, but much too opinionated in the rooms that should wear silence. She’s been told that the sun colors the night of her hair and people often tell her she wears the ocean in her eyes.

Her body sings an undefined melody; a Janis Joplin meets Norah Jones type of concert echoing in the rhythm of her walk. Stuck between personalities she builds a collage of her soul, almost as messy as her bedroom floor.She bathes daily in sunshine, hoping her skin still has enough room to soak up the promise left in its rays.She dips herself in revelry, and tiptoes through life as if the ground offers refuge to a delicate secret.

She struts her messy hair and dirty toes; wears no makeup when the sun’s fingerprints hug her cheeks. She carries her life bled to the paper beneath a yellow binding that rests in her purse.Vanilla chai and sleepy rhymes turn the page to her nighttime rituals. The ocean is her favorite scene, while the rain writes her safest song; something about the water makes her feel clean again yet speaks remnants of her past.

She finds that the words ‘I love you’ never leave her mouth at the right time and she wishes she could proudly carry innocence upon her shoulders again; those were the years she still felt beautiful.

When thirsty lips cried her eyes dry, she taught herself to lay happiness in hands that hold the sun. She lets forgiveness dance across her skin as she opens her chest to breathe the air of her King. 

Autobiography

She is made of sun flowers and unreasonable questions
she drinks the sky in her morning coffee
while curiosity holds her hand.

Her lips are too passive when time calls to be bold,
but much too opinionated in the rooms that should wear silence.

Sun dresses and over sized cardigans breathe
most comfortable against her skin.
She’s been told that the sun compliments
the night of her hair and people often tell her
that she wears the ocean in her eyes.

Her body sings an undefined melody;
a Janis Joplin meets Norah Jones type of concert
echoing in the movement of her walk.
Stuck between personalities she builds a collage of her soul,
almost as messy as her bedroom floor.

In the summer months she bathes daily in the sunshine,
hoping her skin still has enough room to soak up
all the promise left in its rye's.

She dips herself in revelry,
and tiptoes through the rain
as if each drop wore the delicacy of a secret.

She struts her messy hair and dirty toes;
wears no makeup when the sun leaves fingerprints on her cheeks.

She carries her life bled to the paper beneath
a yellow binding that rests in her purse.

She finds that the words ‘I love you’
never leave her mouth at the right time.
And when heartbreak dressed her on the morning that he left,
she searched for answers at the bottom of old whisky bottles and new eyes.

She wishes she could proudly carry innocence upon her skin again,
because those were the years she still felt beautiful.

(1st draft, unfinished)