Saturday, 22 September 2012

[METAPHOR SCRIBBLES] - Berklee Work Wks 5 to 7

His fingers twitch and itch wanting to walk through her spiral notebook’s door! Usually locked securely by a tiny heart-shaped key which she wears on a thin silver chain, he trembles when he finds that tonight she’s left the door’s padlock open. Mikey knows he’s being snoopy, but hope Ali forgives him! as he take a bemused step forward…entering her little world of imagination.
A place where Ali’s precious child-like thoughts run free, chasing yellow buttercups bobbing in the meadows. These meadows have lain in the deepest green valleys of Ali’s fertile mind for so so long, they’ve become run through by tale-telling bubbling streams that curl around Mikey’s ankles with infectious chortling.
He wades in, forgetting to shut the door behind himself. The pages that flurry about him, are too enchanting. Mikey’s lost within them, and he know he’s left tell-tale signs for Ali to know he’s been naughtily snooping. Mikey blushes as rosy pink as Ali’s whimsically scattered, red flowery-notes, reading {Ali luvs Mikey 4eva]. He hopes Ali won’t be too mad at him. He’ll bring her back a daisy flower growing by the banks of her sweet fantasies. A magical spot where her dreams cascade into rainbow pools that he can splash in.
Ali’s poetry and doodles make Mikey smile when they greet him. There are cheeky handshakes, and chuckling curtsies, welcoming him further into Ali’s mind. Creative and brilliant, Ali’s world’s turn page after page, and Mikey let himself frolic along the blue-lined lanes scrawled and scribbled…

You don’t love me, but I own you.
Like a marionette puppet, dangling helplessly on a thin ropey string that I manipulate, you do whatever I make you do. At any time of the black sparkling day, and at any time of the dark twinkling night, you're at my beck and call. In the spotlight, there to perform as I tell you. There is no escaping me, for my fingers are twined around your string tightly. You know real well, if you dare even put one foot out of place, I’ll be pulling you back.
You don’t say a single word, not a peeping squeak in protest of my control. Your feelings are encased within you. Silent feelings, though sometimes I think I may see something, a hateful glimmer in your wide-open brushed eyes. A burning stare, unblinking, letting me know you want out…out of our one-sided destructive relationship that’s got you hanging, strangled and choking behind the stage curtains where no-one sees. But you know I won’t let you go so easily. I hide the rope cutting scissors, out of your reach.
What happened to us?
Your mouth is painted, just a wooden inky black line, across your face. Its not a happy mouth no more, for there is no line-curling up at the corners…but I do not care. I tug at your heartstrings, wickedly opening your lips, and make you give me a puppet’s kiss.


Neighbourhood full of fragmented, hazy memories that I’ve tried to forget. All as cracked as the old, crumbling pavements that line our winding, cherry-blossom scented street.
I'd been the girl next door, and you'd been the boy next door.
Diapered, we’d toddled around, cinnamon-apple mushed baby food dribbling from our dimpled chins to our stripey-spotted bibs. You and me had been the very best of friends, together, always chortling and playing “This little piggy” with our tiny toes. We’d caught twinkling butterflies flitting in the tall grass-blades, and then...then, there'd come one strangely special and whimsical day where we’d fallen in love.
You’d given me a simple, string-tied bouquet of twiggy cherry buds, just as sweet as you.
But we’d been different…same we’d thought, but they’d thought different.
From behind their outwardly ‘welcoming’ closed doors and pretty curtained windows, the neighbourhood had had eyes watching, ears listening, tongues wagging…wicked soft whispers at first, but then they’d grown louder.
Interfering meddlers...they'd meddled, muddying what we’d held precious and pure.
Tearing, wearing down our spirit, and ruining the glue we’d called friendship.
Gossipers had gossiped, weaving rumours, threading untruths, breaking our innocence. After that, it hadn't taken long for the spindly, ivy-covered fence between our homes to become strangling prison bars separating us.
I still remember the chastising, criticizing words my parents had spoke. You hadn’t been good enough, because you’d looked different, talked different, and believed different. We’d been too young and our love had been fractured, too fragile to fight.
And so by the time the cherry blossoms had fallen and we’d said goodbye, the neighbourhood stood shattered, much like our hearts, forever divided by a broken street of dreams...the ones we'd made but had never come true.

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