Slamming Doors

It’s better than it was before:
Laughter drifts through open doors;
So why does my chest tighten,
And my heart so quickly frighten,
At every hint of sounds like slamming doors?

Is it my unpainted fears
On the wall, downstairs?
Or the memory of a child,
Imagination running wild,
Listening to the yelling coming from upstairs?

Is it a weakness that is beautiful?
Or a strength to shield my weary soul?
Or a laughter in my mind,
That says to treat in kind,
And insists that in the end, no one’s really saveable?

Or maybe it’s the path I choose
At the crossroads of lose-lose;
And maybe if I try enough
At the game of never giving up,
I’ll find that there’s a prize that even on that road, I cannot lose.

Alone in the Night

Thinking myself a thing of the dark
I walk out into the night,
To be alone with a tainted heart —
But no! My company is kept by fright!

In the night I find myself to be
Not a demon, or a ghost;
For such things aren’t frightened by fancy,
And my courage is no thing to boast.

In the dark I’m just a little girl
Awed by what could hide behind that tree;
In the night, I’m a small thing in the world —
And that’s okay with me.

My Part in a Cacophony

I cannot write the lyrics
Of the song I’ll never sing;
I like it so much better
When it is but a dream.

There’s a beautiful cacophony
In which I’ve hid myself too long;
An Edda which I love,
But to which I don’t belong.

It’s become my orchestra;
My wonderful distraction.
But I could never write a song
To brush the heights of my imagination.

I find it thrives much better
When it never leaves my mind;
So I will leave it there, pretending
That it’s something I will one day find.

Things That Go Bump In the Night

1 AM, 2 AM, 3 AM fears:
Is that a voice that I’m hearing,
Come from downstairs?
Just the A.C.? The clock?
Or perhaps it’s my brother.
Or is the back door unlocked,
And it’s really something other?

Maybe it’s the dogs,
Barking next door;
Maybe it’s the neighbors,
On their back porch.
Maybe it’s the wind,
Howling in the distance;
Or maybe it is robbers,
Marauding in the kitchen.

How Such Things Begin

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Is this how such things begin?
“Oh, it’s just a chance thing.
Maybe he’s met a girl…
Or has some other reasoning.

He’s been staying out later…
Maybe helping someone out?
That’s fine; I just wish
I knew what he was about…”

The hours tick by;
It grows later than it should.
You hate it, but you wonder
If he might be gone for good.

It must be all those crime shows:
They’re getting to your head.
He’ll be there in the morning;
You should simply go to bed.

But, what if he isn’t?
You’ll stay up ’til he’s in;
All the while dreading
This is how such things begin.