Pressure

Pressure is rising.
You can feel it in your head, the air is so thick it hurts.
The clouds above drape the entire sky in dark, heavy silence.
Your mind goes someplace else, escaping it's throbbing enclosure.
Decisions aren't thought, actions aren't made, nothing is done.
The blanket overhead separates us all.
nothing out of mouths is right,
nothing seen from eyes is trusted,
everything heard in ears ring,
all that is smelt is rain.


Further away, you see the drapes falling,
you see the dark leaking, the weight stretching through.
It's like the blanket is blending downwards,
reaching to touch ground.
The smell is overwhelming, the distant rain is sweet.
Then a jolt of lightening threads it's way down,
lighting the canvas of deep grays.
A smash of thunder tears the barriers
that were maintaining the pressure, and holding the rain.
Rain rushes down, covering everything with a glistening tint.
The pressure is lifted, and the rain is healing; comforting.
The worst has past; the storm is here.

Caught up

Galloping without control.
The feeling is good; free.
Wind playing violent games with your hair,
Blurs of colours passing; barely in sight.
Hearts are heard racing off the grounds,
Thuds of hooves are felt demanding dirt to fly from the ground,
Breathes come often, as if reaching to hold their place.
Out in front is what's desired,
If not obtained, all will race.
To be the first to encounter unknown.
To hop a tree fallen;
Across a creek;
Then higher and further,
Faster and harder,
Growing near the end.

Everyone skids to a halt.
Realization covers all faces,
As a cliff is reached, with no way down.
No way around, no way at all,
except over.

Recollection of the race enters all minds.
The wind stinging tearful eyes,
Wonders of colour, unseen.
Hearts striving in pain,
Sounds drowned by goals,
Breathes getting knocked away.
Everything was rushed,
Nothing was appreciated.
Now it's all gone.
This feeling is bad; empty.
We've galloped without control.

Offtrack

Something must not be right.
I can never sleep at night.
I'm kept awake with thought.
No matter how hard it is fought.
People come with pictures;
self portraits, what they like,
Something that's theirs.
It is completed as they live.
There are blueprints in place,
but the lines always give.
The lines can appear with perfection.
As long as the life drawn is happy,
but once filled with rejection,
The line will swerve a bit.
To mess everything up,
to show something doesn't fit.

Mine is traced with many swerves.
When I focus back I am not very happy,
I wonder what all these mistakes serve.
Every disappointment throws the line off,
Am I messing up my life completely?
The blue marks once seen are no where.
Am I too offtrack to fix it?
I think so,
Too bad there's no one to care.