december

wait 'til december
the moon shines brighter then.
the wind blows more.
the trees shiver.
warmth pulls us closer.
fictitious happiness suffocates our hearts.

it's a break.
from all of the troubles built up over the past twelve months.
it's the longest breath of the year.
take it in and look around.
keep breathing.

wait 'til december
steam flows from our mouthes.
lights twinkle from the road side.
we all know the words.
fake livestock occupies dying lawns.
students live in strange autonomy.

it's a break.
from a habitual schedule and routine.
it's the longest nap of the year.
stay in bed with me.
and sleep.

i can't wait 'til december.

what the cold brings

The wind drowns the sun and pulls goose bumps from my skin. My bed welcomes me the best it can, but even in warmth of down feathers I get lonely. An orange light haunts my slipping conscious, seeping through closed blinds, through closed lids. I look forward to sleep, but know it always ends too soon.

I see beauty in sorrow before glee. Good feelings inevitably follow the sad—if not, maybe suicide, the richest kind of sorrow, that in itself possesses a dark beauty. Within sorrow exists a security that conditions will improve, and happiness offers the opposite guarantee. I long for you when I'm lonely, and forget you when I'm content. But I find myself forgetting a lot of things lately, a lot of people. I have convinced myself it is okay to forget.

ask and you shall receive

the branches broke.
i wasn't talking about those branches, though.
or was i?
they're going in the wood chopper either way this time.

singing in the shower ignites flowers

i wish the branches would break
i can not fall on my own
i wish my inside would shake
i stand still far too long

poison

This poison I'm inhaling.
I think I need it.
Look me in the eye.
Tell me you mean it.
But this time.
Mean it.
There's nothing more.
To break.
Break.
Break.
How many times?
Please.
Don't come back.

run

run until the blood boils.
until it bubbles life from eyes and ears.
run until the heart explodes.
until it splatters love on the cement.
run until the lungs burst.
until they gush nostalgic toxins.

run until there's no longer a bouncing silhouette on the horizon,
but a moment of realization.

sorry for the sorrow

heart strings drip sorrow in this sun lit room. they shimmer as they fall, almost happy to be free. once they're alone it's a different story. january reminds of heart ache, and february reads eulogies. love, for now, is the enemy. internally constricted, pain doesn't flow so easily. swallow it down, it'll all be over soon. tears stain cheeks, but shimmer in this sun lit room.

moisture

a dreary, wet-without-rain day rests stagnantly on passing shoulders.
pedestrians move through the moist air with a sleepiness only the sun can cure.
gray lyrics fade in and out of thoughts, and fog consumes the horizon.

thoughts trickle down as dense air does, condensing to a liquid too heavy to float, sliding down still panes of glass.

thick days like these make the future hard to breathe in.

falling

it only hurts when my hopes are up.
the fall can be too far.
i hope darkness meets me at the end.

pollock

It's like starring at the horizon.
Which way should I go?
And do I want to go at all?
What if the road ends dead.
But we all die.