Lincoln Logs

I’ve built a fortress around me with words and whatnot.
My first memory is being inside a house. Everything is low-spirited.
I feel sad because no one ever seemed to want to hang out with me.

I told her to use her words not emoticons or silly ass stickers.
When she sings the Pony Express gallops from her throat as messages are delivered.
I’ll never forget how we nearly died from inhaling oil paint and turpentine fumes.

I’m not in control. In fact I’m out of control.
My mother asked me why I’m sleeping so much. I started thinking perhaps it’s because I’m depressed or maybe I’m just tired from doing nothing but waiting for the miracle to come.
The Lincoln Logs felt good in my hands. They reminded me how things fit together especially when unfit and in need of love and Elmer’s Glue.

Many people believe they are artists, but few burn hot enough to create anything actually transformative. 
We are phoenixes and we rise from the ashes unguarded and empty of any deceit.
I’m not proud of how many bridges I have burned. I’m not proud of much these days except what I have pulled together from words and whatnot.

Charles Cicirella
2/14/15