Dream Catcher

The downward spiral is an easy one to march.
Recently I've been plummeting down as though propelled by wings,
darkly feathered ones that span greater than my desire for survival.
I've been lulling myself into this false sense of complacency.
I'll tell myself it doesn't matter how far I go,
as long as I can still function day to day,
still put out an outward appearance of being "there," of being "present."
They say that I'm destroying myself,
like I've just now passed the marker that separates
simple negligence from active obliteration
of self.
I don't want to tell them that I purposefully chose this path.
That the reason the downward spiral is so fast and so easy
is because every step is greased with the fat
of a thousand good, solid arguments.
At least, they sound good for a little while.
I'll admit that I have my days where I look back,
and remember where I've come from.
Days where I want to shed my guilt like a second skin,
and believe in the gift of dream-catchers,
that can pluck the nightmares from your mind.

Tree

A single tree's pale fingers
stretch towards the light
I am with them
Leaves pierce and flourish
I grow for a time
But when buds begin to pinprick
my arms turn inward
The flowers spring forth and bear fruit
I shrivel and my eyes flash
My mouth begins to speak
and blackness pours out
My inner tree lies dormant
until the cycle begins again

Love

Love transforms us all.
From a slimy thing to something winged,
or perhaps something that flies
to something that is tethered.
It all depends on perspective.
Are you someone positive?
Or are you self-destructive?
All fair questions when you feel torn
between two selves.
When you can envision so many heavens
but you are caught within so many hells.
Pick a side:
is it easy? Is it fair?
What philosophy do you adhere to?
Do you love smashing the pretty things,
or would you prefer to plant seeds in tiny rows,
so far from yourself that you can believe
they might actually grow?

Bottom of the Well

I ran from the world in the same manner that I ran from myself. It was a frenzied thing: thoughts scattered; emotions torn, raw, bloodied; reasoning and motive nonexistent. To me, running was the only outcome. It was my way to escape when no other solutions were clear.
But what is it that I am doing now, down at the very bottom? I tumbled, plummeted straight down, until I hit rock-bottom with a crash that shattered every paradigm, every preconceived idea that I had about the reality of the world that I had run from. And, of course, myself.
I questioned. I tasted of myself and my surroundings with the taste buds of my soul, and I pondered. Answers, questions, unanswered questions, doubts, dreams, and mysteries pierced at my being with every breath drawn. I was a blank slate, unmolded clay, a canvas yet to be painted upon! The world was new, and I stumbled, unsure and new myself. To be overwhelmed at the magnitude of things is a little like waking up naked in a room full of people you don't know: you feel vulnerable, embarrassed, alarmed -- and either very, very large or very, very small.
The question that remains here is this: am I running back to where I came from, or further away? Or perhaps I am not running anymore at all, and am simply frozen, unable to move, unwilling to change; stagnant in my way of life, my way of thinking, my way of self; utterly immobile, broken, dead.