The girl without hands

The girl without hands*
by me(whatever)

The girl without hands,
she fell off the high wall,
like a humpty dumpty without wings.

She was laughing so gallantly,
nodding her head to the world
before her own mistake took her.

The skeleton in the grave below,
still lives and tortures her with its songs.

When she was older, she was unhappy
when she was younger, she thought she was happy.

The girl wearing the blind fold,
hiding the sight of her soul from those abusers
but no one understood, because she hid
and no one sought to help, for she disappeared.

It was purple, but no, it was pink
somehow it's become jumbled
her egg yolk and shell have shattered.

fairy tales are cruel,
and within them are meanings we have forgotten,
tales whispered to ourselves in the dark
when our emptiness overfills the room.

The girl without hands,
unable to hold, without breaking, a single beautiful word
a single beautiful thought
a single beautiful heart.

Are they connected?
I wish they were, I wish they were
the heart and soul,
maybe one could mend the other.

The girl without a heart,
is there a fairy tail as such?
For she lost her hands,
and everything slipped away
simply because she fell.

In a town of so many eggs
living and bouncing,
and learning to flap their wings
She's on the ground
walking behind everyone else. 

"Save me! Save me!"
she cried, behind her mask.
The girl without hands,
no one could hold her. 

Song

Song
by me(whatever)
to Rain stops, goodbye (piano version)

Throughout my life,
like a bombarding parade;
there's a scrapbook of songs,
showing my steps
better than footprints ever could.

The notes between bars,
just like a canary in a cage;
each key strike tells a thousand stories
in a voice I still can't make out the words,
it tells me to move on.

So many songs,
filling the message I bottled in the sea
people who I will never know
read and take notes,
answering the questions I never asked.

In a room darkened by night,
I listened alone.
In parables, and dreams, and fairytales,
I closed my eyes
and quietly held on.

When in the laughing face of time,
I forget myself again and again,
a million songs fill my mind
reminding me of who I am,
and who I will be
when I can write my own.

Wood Letter

wood letter
by me(whatever) 

From the midst of the whistling woods,
I will return again.
From the depths of the forest dark,
I will return here.

It's springtime in the trees,
you can hear it in the birds song.
The rain never falters,
yet the sounds carry on.

The wet gets in my clothes,
the dew in my hair.
I shiver in the greenery,
an overlay of sparse flowers.

I found on the soft oak path,
a view of a lake reflecting the sky.
If I could hold it in my palm,
I'd bring it for you to see.

It's a journey from the book,
the journal we found in the old leather trunk.
Wish me well,
I will return again.

Ghost

Ghost
by me(whatever)

Invisible world
Invisible nation
Invisible city
Invisible town
Invisible neighborhood
Invisible house
Invisible room
Invisible bed
Invisible person

Invisible pain.

Hills

Hills
by me(whatever)
to Ships in the Night

He held his breath,
he closed his eyes,
left fumbling through,
as they all said their goodbyes.

the phone calls stopped,
just like the letters on the steps.
His father wouldn't speak,
and the whole house wept.

There was Campanella,
waving his greetings far away.
No friends, no dreams,
as he drifted like a blue jay.

He ran out on the hills,
when it was night and full of stars.
He was quiet and sang a song,
a song of his caging bars.

Too many apologies,
too many tears shed.
Too many people alone,
too many words unsaid. 

He couldn't stay and wait,
the world kept spinning on
He left in the middle of the morning,
before the sun was in the dawn.

He ran out on the mountains,
when it was day and full of light.
He was quiet and sang a song,
a song of how he could still fight. 

Too many regrets,
too many wasted days,
Too many arguments,
too many people who won't stay.

He tried to find a way,
a way to survive.
He lived and lived and lived,
before he realized he was alive. 

He ran back home,
to the abandoned house on the hills.
His father on the floor;
a life eaten in pills.

he kneeled on the roads,
running from the crashing sea.
He was swallowed by the whaling nights,
yet all he could do was flee. 

It was him; only him,
all by himself in the drowning skies.
He held his breath,
He closed his eyes.

He ran out on the hills,
when it was night and full of stars.
He was quiet and sang a song,
a song of his caging scars.

He ran out on the hills,
when it was night and full of stars,
He was quiet and sang a song,
a song of breaking his caging bars.

Too many apologies,
too many tears shed.
Too many people alone,
too many words unsaid. 

The Village

 The Village
by me(whatever)
to spontaneous me
related to the poems: The Dollmaker and The Town Doll's Midsummer Song

The birds weep in the morning,
the sun overlies the town.
The grass is fresh with dew,
dripping slowly down.

Butterflies at their windows,
fluttering among the posies.
The smoke smothers the sky
floating in the warm summer breeze.

The fathers discard the wood,
the mothers withhold their young.
A shangri-la hidden within the trees,
where a curse speaks in devil's-tongue.

The river waters run clear,
reflecting shards of blue.
The living rather the dead,
another soul has flew.

The dance has left the grounds,
a sacrifice for the everlasting sun.
vessels in chains,
where soon there will be none. 

marionettes speaking to the pass-away,
deciding which will go.
The village shimmers in fortune,
since the calamity centuries ago.