Fireflies

We are all storytellers.

 Backyard fireflies caught in mason jars caressed by little hands,

Held captive by curious minds and sparkly eyes.

 Sunsets stuck in the blurred horizon wondering where to go next,

Suspended on the hope written within tomorrow.

 Superhero nightlights standing guard beside the nursery doorway,

Holding down the fort and wondering what the daylight will bring this time.

Defective chameleons trying to blend in with the emptiness we feel inside,

Invisible isn’t a color.

Mascara coated eyelashes holding onto the windowsill of reality,  

Peering down to the traffic below, watching the lights zoom past.

 Vintage cameras striving to capture every moment in the powerful grip of our souls,

Moments of joy held prisoner in the lens.

 Pungent smokers lungs, trying to breathe it all in but not seeming to have the capacity,

Wheezing, gasping for a breath of hope.

 Fun house mirrors with sharp edges of truth and shiny glimpses of reality,

Bending our souls, intertwining the good and bad into a casserole of unknown.

 Water beds waiting to be made into who we’re supposed to be,

Trying to stretch our personalities around the mattress of conformity.

Prescription drugs waiting to cure the sickly being within,

Itching for the next hit of happiness.

Shoe laces tightened around what was once real,

Dragging across the gravel path of the present.

 Hoover vacuums ready to suck up the painful memories,

Clean up the mess we’ve made of ourselves.

 Dandelion weeds winding down the path of deception,

Growing our insecurities and imperfections.

 Electron microscopes enhancing every imperfection to 400 times,

Forgetting to zoom out and find the bigger picture.

Zippers holding in all the feelings,

Hoping we don’t get caught up in the sharp teeth of grief.

 Vivid hallucinations praying for lunch break,

But getting stuck in lifes cubicle.

Skinny jeans squeezing out every last penny from our pathetic bank accounts,

Confidence popping off like buttons.

Orange life jackets just trying to drown out the noise,

Floating just above the surface, noses plugged as not to choke on our own tears.

We are all books to be written, chapters yet to unfold, ink waiting to spill.