heart resonanceAs I listen to the start it feels like someone pulling the six strings of my heart
And the beats reverberate through my whole body
My fists clench
With my feet planted firmly on the floor
I let out the first resonance of my soul
It gives me a chill like a ghost laid their hand on my shoulder
I keep my eyes closed to keep in the pain and joy it gives me
To yell this story of my heart so loudly
But as the notes drift along into silence
And my wavering heart stops its beating
My eyes open to darkness
Not there anymoreI tightened my hands on the rubber of my gun out of stress.
The anxiety reminded me of back when I was only 14.
Paintballs in my hand loading them then putting on my goggles.
Hiding behind trees and under shrubs in the forest, wondering when Id be hit. Smelling of mud and dirt when I got home late.
Now I could smell the dirt on my vest clearly even in the stale air. I can still remember the smell of paint as I would fire harmlessly at my friends
The cushioning of my oversized helmet would always end up in my mouth but my green camo helmet fit my bigger head now. Even so I pressed my hand on top of the metal on top of my head down in memory.
I can still taste the paint on my tongue, a bad mix of the sweat that was already intruding my mouth.
Me and my comrades walk stealthily closer to the small, guarded bunkers, a little crack or some crunches of branches and leaves under us barely being heard.
Two grown men, like us, were guarding the door to the entrance of the bunker, complete
kissing fishesKissing Fishes
paper planes with flitting dreams written on them
and flying angel hearts come from a mythical land.
violins sing my tune and prucussions drum softly.
as I walk across the small bridge over a lake, and sit under a cherryblossom tree
I think about those green eyes and look up to the green skies.
"The fish are flying, the fish are flying," my child voice says.
I stand up and reach out to give one an innocent kiss on the cheek but its not the right one.
I was only just understanding.
I leave that spot to start to grow into myself and search for the one.
I listen to pretty piano melodies and laugh with the abstract flower buds.
I meet a songful whistler, a bird with cute wings, but can't fly.
Much like a peacock with great grey eyes.
I stay quiet and listen to him talk about his big nest and watch him flaunt his wings and tail feathers.
but I still listen to the buds and they say the bird likes to hang in the shade too much and doesn't lik