a bullet or rope
a sleek marble tombstone marked
with cut wrists or throat

clothing as black as
the twisted idea of  
rejecting a life

step to optimism
yes, the righteous perspective
of breathing the air

that is shared by he
who bare curvature structure
on positive mouth

take pride in your home
cherish mother's cooking and
your father's poor jokes

yes, home can be dull
but even when its raining
taste those gray skies

harmony in drops
beautiful melancholy
the sound of comfort

knotted roots scatter violently from the stump of winter's barren tree
permeating frost grips each wilting branch, a blanket of sickness
only the crows that bore the blackest of feathers visit and admire it
for they commend the tree as it evades death's charcoal robes
they themselves have been plagued with the terminal numbing
and are perplexed by the grit of their natural friend
their companion is dying, from the inside out, as veins begin to clot
yet, within months, the tree will support families of robins and finches
dawning a thick coat of delicious apples and stunning leaves
as caterpillars create plated cocoons along sturdy bark
blossoming into brilliant, alluring butterflies before the crows' sable eyes
and now the crows feathers will dampen from pearl tears amidst the beautiful scene of transformation
as they question why spring's vitality exists for their friend
while they only feel winter's cold

The pit that appears covered travels deepest to the core

The pit that I feel which lies far under the smoke-spitting pipes of my lungs

The pit that I feel which even hides beneath the jet-black odious chambers of my heart

The pit that shelters moss on its shadowy walls grows around these visible ribs, and it's suffocating me

The pit that bores warning signs for hunters and hikers alike, for no one must reach it's internal sanctuary of melancholy

The pit of your most sinister creation, the pit you spent years piling with leaves so I could not even recognize it

Until with one swift goodbye, the wind in that word brushed this mirage of love and support aside to reveal a pit that has grown so large that it echoes my cries

Only so they can replay like the rain, only so I can listen to them every single night before my eyes finally give way to slumber

So with the coming of April, I pray the trees recover their lost leaves, so I can do my best to shield this throbbing scar of solemn sorrow

Yet, I must remain alone, for I don't have the audacity to lead someone into this pit of desolation where it is impossible for me to love them, such as you replaced your pit with mine