Funny how things change

that's all.

You're so cute with your
Existential Crisis
The lights go out
And your Ego still shines
Your mind like gold
'Cause you're just like Midas

Sleeping in the palm of unformed,
time,
reading the almanac,
of the coldness of,
moon,
the first section is,
an achromatic afternoon,
the setting sun,
arranged the gloaming,
in the last line of,
a familiar paragraph,
the footprints,
awake at the end of,
the avenue,
the page turned,
stamped with deep,
soliloquy,
and it’s said that,
the illustrations on the cover,
are the unfinished snow of,
last year.

Maybe this is our generation
The batten down the hatches
Singing songs of the east coast kid
With west coast dreams generation
While the A.C. is singing songs for
The ocean sea
And ocean breeze
I could feel
My skin remembering
The blue sounds
And blue piers
Blue hands
I’m blue behind the ears
I remember how much my heart
tendered her
And I wondered
How high that bonfire burned—

On the beach,
she told me the truth
about her arms
That this one was for her ma
And that one was for her pa
And that one was for her brother
Fighting overseas

“What about that one”

“Well, that one’s for you
And for me
For proof that I was here,
That I was alive before all of this”

how nice it must feel to just simply wake up refreshed
after umpteen years of innocent sleep
where you were blinded by passing headlights as you took the long way home
drunk off milkshakes and water bottles and german cologne
and you wake up fresh faced in wrinkled white sheets
and the neighbor lady’s wind chime is calling your name
and the sun shakes your hand and welcomes you in
and pours you a drink as the next dream begins
how nice it must be to just simply turn around
to run your hands over pictures of your past and smile
to wave at your decisions, laugh at your consequences
clean as summertime white picket fences
how nice it must be to breathe in a breeze instead of bleach
to admire the etches in your palms instead of hiding them with yellow rubber gloves
to spend what’s left of your young years free of regret
and not scrubbing a split second out of the carpet

Invent
discover possibilities
Create
The rules are yours to bend and break
Blindly love
The unseen beauty
Never fake
An opinion
I was a 4 year old
balding ferns
It was serene
I could learn
For forever

If I was a mountain

That soared towards the sky,

With craggy snow caps

And stormy grey eyes-



Then you'd be the clouds

That swaddled my peak,

That silenced my thunder

When I tried to speak.



If I was the earth

The desert, in fact:

With arid dry soil

And mud, dried and cracked-



You'd be the rain

The downpour that soothed;

The balm to my bruises,

Relief to my wounds.



If I was the Moon

In the indigo night,

With stars as my blanket

And silver; my light-



Well you'd be the Sun

Just always behind

That lent me your glow

And caused me to shine.

By Sarah Quil