Concrete Angel

Sometimes she lays down on the black-as-a-cat concrete,
Thighs burning from the heat, fingers tingling, elbows tingling
She lays there because she can.
Because life is too short sometimes to question impulses
Because she wonders if anyone has ever made a concrete angel
Like a snow angel, but only on the hot, hot, concrete.
On the black, black concrete
Too-hot-to-touch concrete
Fry-an-egg-on-it concrete
Coal-black, soul-black concrete.

Cocoon

She was a social butterfly.
But sometimes she felt like retiring into her cocoon, retreating into a world where all is quiet.
Because people can be mean to butterflies. People can rip off their wings.
And their wings are what makes them feel beautiful.
The solution is, of course, to stay away from those wing-ripping people.
But sometimes that's not possible.
So the safest thing for her to do is to retreat into her cocoon.
To become quiet, thoughtful, contemplative.
That side of her is rare. She used to hate that side.
Depressed, she wondered if anyone else noticed her quietness.
If anyone else noticed her wings were gone.
She doesn't mind retreating into her cocoon as much now.
She's realized something.
Her cocoon and her wings are both a part of her.
They're what make her unique, different, special.
They make her ... her.
Different sides, perhaps, but both are still uniquely, undoubtedly, part of the butterfly.

Soul Perfume

  She stares at the dark amber perfume and licks her lips. Big lips. Hide-a-kiss-inside kind of lips. You know the kind.
  She stares and she wonders how it would taste, that syrupy perfume that echoes hints of myrrh and honey. And if she drank it, would it make her soul sweeter? Did they make a perfume for the heart?
  That perfume could cover up body odor, heart sin, putrid thoughts.
  Soul perfume. They could package that. It's a real sellable product. All the hollywood "glitz and glamors" would buy it. Because, as a person, it's not enough to look good, smell good, sparkle on the outside.
  You have to be good on the inside too.

Balloon Prayers

  Sometimes I pray, and my prayer turns into a big bright balloon bumping around in sky, weaving between cumulus clouds. My balloon goes headed to heaven, jostling thousands of other balloons on the way.
  Do you think any of the balloons ever pop, get lost, go wondering to that place of desperation where they end up nestled in caves by the sea?
  Do you think God ever rejects the prayers because the balloon is just too ugly, the string too ragged, the knot lop-sided and tied by kindergarten-clumsy fingers.
  Do you think any of the balloons fall, deflate, flatten, get the wind knocked out of them, breath taken away in gasps, become discouraged, leave their carcasses abandoned along the road somewhere where no-one, not even God, knows there they are?

Balloon Prayers Abandoned.

An Introduction

She writes to fill a spot in her soul. She bakes to soothe her creativity and sweet-tooth. She creates because she is an artist, and an artist does not tell lies, she only reveals them to the world.
She is the ordinary princess, and she is scared to venture into the blogging world. It's a world full of intimidating, well-known, creative people. Will the ordinary princess hold her own?
It'll be an adventure.
And it's worth a try.