As another year has ticked by,

                       This one was especially a blur,

And For a long stretch of it,

      The days passed like breaths in an

anxiety attack,

  Quick and sharp,

          With little lasting impact,

I realized recently how much of my last year was spent toiling. Giving myself fully to something in the hope of being better again.

                     Carrying my candle,

                     Trusting the process.

   In the end I’ve not a lot to show for it but **** did it feel good to feel a fire for something again. In some sort of roundabout way I ~Feel~ as though I’ve ~Felt~ very little at ~All~ this year. Which is a statement that marks this year as standing in stark contrast to the previous one, and is only true romantically.

I had a dream about cutting my hair,

And hating the results,

I googled the meaning and supposedly it can mean taking control of your life,

Or

Supposedly, that you’re having a hard time with a decision and your subconscious is telling you to think twice about it.

Among other, assumably equally applicable interpretations.

I think it’s because I have been thinking about cutting my hair a lot.

I’m not sure what the next year will hold,

I still warm my hands over the wick of my candle,

Hopeful as ever to see another year tick bye.

I used to write such beautiful things,

About such beautiful things,

On and on would go my enamored rambling,

Like the longest winded songbird on the years first Snowy morning,

My head would spin as I turned to take it all in,

The blur in my eyes as they dart from side to side could lead a Pagan to consider a God,

Each microsecond my eyes could process could’ve been framed and hung in a gallery,

Each with its own placard listing important details, noting the set and setting of each shock across the meat inside my skull,



I used to write such beautiful things,
About such beautiful things,

But a beautiful thing about those beautiful things,

Is that even if you close your eyes and do your best to ignore them,

Or lie to yourself and try to see them as ugly,

They are still there, waiting for you to peel your eyes back open,

And remind you how beautiful,

This whole thing is

It’s still such a conundrum,

The way it hurts to remember,

But to die at the the thought of forgetting

It’s been a long time,

And by now I’m mostly numb,

But still,

Watching you bleach the canvas,

Watching you clean all the stains,

Like a thief hiding every scrap of evidence,

Ridding your legacy of all our transgressions,

My throat tightens,

My eyes water,

My nose burns,



It’s fine,

Pinky promise,


I’ll keep my pieces safe for us,



Pinky promise.

Ive stopped making poems and art out of everyone I encounter beyond the surface.

I’ve stopped making myself a Martyr to my own feelings,

I’ve stopped forcing gorgeous jewels upon the crown of regular people.