Behind Closed Doors

Darkest of oak,
stained with who-knows-what,
little golden-gild knob,
Locking away all those
messy little secrets,
all those
tidy little lies,
all those
skeletons in the closet.

Behind the protector lies
that long forgotten love,
that hopeful little promise of
sunshine, gold;
listen now as I snatch words
from Robert Frost's very own lips;
nothing gold can stay.

 Behind the little wall,
lies everything buried;
hatchets,
handles,
water under bridges,
but never really forgotten.

After forever and eternity,
when Christ returns to this
corruption, this
"promised land",
the hidden, stolen,
locked-away, locked-up
door that binds me here
shall open.
(Yeah, maybe 
someday) 

What do you think? 

Home

Four letters. Four, little letters. 7-15-13-5.
According to Dictionary.com, home has eleven different meanings; go here to read them.

 

But isn't home more then just that? Doesn't it have some sort of magic to it? Home is more then just a place where you live, but its the place where you store all your hurt, all your tears, all your pain, all your agony, all that bad stuff. But it's also the place where you store all that good stuff, all that magical stuff--love, happiness, those little thoughts that enter your mind throughout the day that make you smile. 

That's part of the reason people move, or why they divorce, or break up, whatever, isn't it? Because they want to escape all those emotions that have built up in their home for the last couple years. Because, sometimes, escapes must be made. Because, sometimes, home isn't a house; because home can be anything, can be human, can be a real, live, honest-to-goodness person. 

 

 I wonder where my home went?

Normal

For Sunday Scribblings.

Normal.
Her hair, the perfect shade of mud. Her eyes, pools of brown. Her skin, fair, but not too fair.
Everything she was, everything she did, planned perfectly in an attempt an normality.
She was always punctual, always. Throughout her school life, she was an average student, always getting 89s or 90s, never a point higher, nor a point lower. She enjoyed the same guys as everyone else, was obsessed with Twilight, had had her heart broken a few times, had done her chores.
All in an attempt to hide herself, to never let anyone see the real her.
Her hair, a fluffy white streaked with red. Her eyes, one blue, one green. Her tanned skin actually a ghostly color. Always wanting to be late, never succeeding. Wanting to be a better student, but confined by her fears. Hating the same guys that her friends loved, thinking that Twilight was just about the worst movie she had ever seen. Had hated letting her heart get broken, knowing she could protect herself. Forced herself to do chores so no one would ever know what a slob she was.
And now she's sitting on her bed, tears slipping down her cheeks, wondering when her life started to crash around her ears.

(Normal's taking over your life, hon.)

The Mysterious Life and Times?

I know what you're thinking.
"The Mysterious Life and Times of what?" you'll wonder.
I wish I could say that the answer will blow your minds right out of your head. Wish I could say that there is a mastermind behind the title, something that I ought to copyright and claim as mine. Wish I could say that the owner of the life and times was completely mysterious.
But she is not. Nay, she is merely someone who enjoys stringing words as if they were beads onto a string, and who dreams that a mystery will someday be her own.
I'll get into all that later. Maybe. If I feel like it. We'll see.
Sweet daydreams!