Wild, to me.
This week, I struggled more than I thought I would.
I tried to recapture the wildness of youth,
the wild days of university.
The wildness of the African savannahs, the feeling of freedom
the remote Cornish coasts,
the splendor of the west coast wilderness.
Instead I was pulled to the hidden wild,
that which lies within, often secretly
The urge to be more than the uniform of "mom",
to be steam punk or goth, dress in 50s gear.
To wear purple before I am sixty...
To drink more than I should,
to dance to my own drum, creating a new harmony,
to be more adventurous and outgoing.
To be the person I am, in that little space that still yearns to be a wild girl.
© 2012 LatteJunkie
windswept and wild,
the surf crashes to the shore
white horses rear and rush,
ever onward, ever more
silhouetted by the cloud-filtered gray.
facing into the wind,
blinking the salt water away
he stands, tightly bound,
on that windswept coast
he feels it moving
he stands on the outcrop of rock
bound by constraints
flexing, seeping through
tiny fissures in the facade
of his public persona
he waits for the break
in the clouds,
in the rhythm of the waves
a chance to be more
no longer trapped, held back
not him anymore.