Book of Poetry

Where has she gone?

Beams of grey sunlight filtered in
Through stained glass windows
Casting coloured shadows on the stone floors
Painting dancing images inside my war weary eyelids

I think it's the depiction of some god
Though I could never tell;
Ashen insecurities obscure my gaze
I'm blind
Peering through russet windows clouded with a sense of self deprivation

And the silence seems thicker
The booming hush floating lazily through the valiant sunbeams
Greeting the dustbunnies as they drift down slower than molasses

My mind is stuck in a state of stagnation
Like a broken record replaying a snippet of a larger tune
That I've already forgotten the rest of the words to

Breathy, cracked voices force feeding me lies
Saying, "Never quite there; never good enough."

They lash against the chorus of encouragements and compliments and uplifting words of endearment
That come from an army of like-minded
Angels
Shielded from this world by nothing but a few pieces of
Decrepit armour

But I don't seem to hear the praise,
My thunderous heart pulsating
Within my eardrums
Hiding what means the most and
Amplifying the words of wicked self-doubt

And I know it's ridiculous;
These downgrading voices--this fear; they're just
The product of an in the dark
Anxiety

But then again...
There is always room for improvement
And then again...
I still have such a long way to go

"Never quite there; never good enough."

And I really do wonder how
Time seemed to give me the slip
How those dancing colours
Seemed to morph into a wicked grin
Laughing at my obliviousness

And, God
When did church halls turn into
Hospital wards?

When were stained glass windows
Replaced with clouded, life obscuring ones?

When did I decide to trade in my quills for hospital bands and pills?
My sketchbooks for doctor slips?
My notebooks for therapy sessions?

I claim to need more adventure in my life
Yet I'd lock myself away within overly clean smelling sheets;
I'd trade the adrenaline for a false sense
Of uncharacteristic security

Just who have I become?
And just what did I loose along the way?

Like I'm skipping pebbles across a
Gleaming mirror surface
Just to see them go;
Throwing away those bits of myself that mean the most

It's as if I can't see that these
Rainbow images
Are a self portrait
Imbuined in church glass
Glittering magnificently on the floor in the morning rays

And, honestly,
I kind of miss myself.