On Life, Love And Balloons [ A Prose Poem ] Poem by Amberlee Carter

I have to digest this while's it's hot
other wise I may just find it rejected,
like I am rejected, by myself and by all who are actually
more-or-less, moral-less in my generation.

I need to feed the children, they have grown so much.
My little flowers of virtue, I keep them quite moist,
but the sun is a killer.
Creativity and inspiration. Expression and idea.
which comes first, the pregnancy or the birth?
When are we alive? When are we dead? That is the greater question.
I think sometimes I already am, I think sometimes
when you look at me you're looking through me.
Sometimes I think you're envisioning me but not seeing me. Not listening?
No, I am not listening either.

I need to clean the cobwebs from my cellar
so I can store my child-hood bed.
Not to mention all the years I collected odd rocks, old pictures, (frameless)
and all the blue ribbons of excellence.
It was kindergarten, I felt like I'd achieved the greatest title in the world.
The almighty hero, I was, for once and only once, a somebody,
and all the nobodies wanted to be just like me.
Even now I don't think they realize how much more like me they are than even I am.

Reality is getting sketchy, the fine thin line is really shaky,
but so am I because I drink too much coffee
and stay up too late writing. or reading if my eyes permit. (and assuming I can fend off the migraines that long)
Funny how my eyes never get too dull, unless I'm tired,
but usually you're fooled into thinking it's been a sheltered life.
Innocence is what you see? so to speak?
No, I am not speaking at all either..

Disguises are best, for who would cheer the sad and lonely?
The broken and the torn? The busted and the beaten if not the clowns?
GOD FORBID this mask ever slip from off my face!
The whole world might just crumble...maybe just your world?
maybe just mine... I think that already happened,
I'll have to check the calendar, my biological clock?
I wasn't really talking about my womb being bare,
I was talking about being abandoned of all life.. uncovered and naked shivering from how cold this void seems to be..

It's empty in space, or so I've heard, I was told that heaven was up there.
Is that why people scream and shake angry fists at the sky?
My father did that once, I thought he was going to fight God.
Years later, when the frustrations mounted, smothered me,
I found myself acting out in the same childishness.
Though it's rather futile trying to fight an invisible man,
we only end up with black eyes and wounded pride
from the knuckles of his unseen hand. Try telling that to your therapist.
Are you listening now? No, I don't believe I am or was or will or can at this point either..

So I'll go on,
I was saying how enchanting this has all been,
for me to be away from home, so far from home-The place where
I lay me down to die instead of sleep because
I hate being around the living and I hate to dream. Even though, yes, I dream of you, and me, and whoever else impacts my regular week.
Sometimes it's not about you, or me, or anyone else.
Sometimes it's just abstract rambling, faceless pictures
that float through my head, in front of my eyes behind my lids.
I've tried to catch them, but I've found that all too often I'm 7 years old again chasing after a balloon, and then I fall and the bubble goes up! up! up! until it's just another fragment of sky, it never even waves good-bye..why is that?
Why does it never land?
Hopes and dreams and aspirations crash, why don't balloons?
I always missed my balloons, there were always strings attached
to some part of my being, and it hurt like hell every time
the thread cut into my wrists. Ahh, the miserable joy of love.

Yeah, well, I only bring it up 'cause
you're going away and I am trying to figure out if I'll miss you