Tell Me No More of Enchanted Days

I You tear my face aside like a non descript curtain, and look out and say, the rain hasn’t really stopped, the scenery is pretty poor from here, look at all the grey cement and the lack of sunlight, the room stinks of failure, the food stale, I feel bad for you, don’t you want to live somewhere better, or are you too used to this gloomy life of yours? I sit quietly, as the skin from my cheeks falls on the floor, And the smile that was once hidden by my lips, Tumbles to the grey floor of my grey life. II You look at the dark clouds hovering over the dull market, the pigeons jostled in the cramped by lanes of the dead city. “How do I look, do you think I’ve changed?” I ask, hoping to hear the story of where I lost my smile, and the clues that lead me back to when you used to touch the roses in my cheeks, when the green of my eyes shone all over the grey walls, the birth of the Emerald City, where you found your home. But now, your eyes are fixed on the crowd That is pulling off the sto

I'm there again, all of 15, confused, scared, like any other teenager, it's a cloudy Sunday morning, and Papa is watching Nat Geo, there are smells of holiday brunch, coming in, tide like from the kitchen a sleepy, pleasant awakening, nudging your sister, in her bed, and fighting over who woke the other first, arguing over who's supposed to make the bed. Then sitting at our study tables, and worrying about how much we would score; This is the memory I woke up to today, with a smile, and a desire to be there, in that place, with those people, I woke up alone, but I didn't feel alone, And this is not even a poem, why are my lines flowing in free verse? why am I scared again? why do I wish I had conjunctivitis again, so that my father would clean my sticky eyes, that my mother would hold me again, and tell me that I'm not alone, that I'll be all right soon, that I'm a strong girl, that my grandma would pat my head on her lap, and say words that would be wise