Shattered Mirror
Broken Glass
Thousands of People
Walking right Past
Nobody Notices
Nobody Asks
Just another pile
Of Worn Out
Useless Trash

I look outside,
See all the things that I'm missing,
I feel empty,
Too scared to still make the change,
I follow the same old pattern,
The pattern that kills me,
While I'm still breathing,
I'm choking myself slowly,
It's like a disease,
I'm supposed to live,
But I've given up,
Given up in slowmotion.

I sit on the bed by the window
Naming the falling leaves.
You sit between the scribbled paper walls
Counting the ever-opened scars.
While the coffee grows colder,
I think of you,
Seven hundred and seventy seven
Kilometers away.
While the bottle falls empty?
You hit the floor with it,
About a thousand
Worlds away.

I hold my hand out in the void
In case yours reaches.
You hold still on the damp floor.
Empty bottles are old friends..

I whisper like madmen, words
I don't understand.
You silently hold your breath, while
Inside storms are raging.
Fracturing physical form,
Savagely splintering spirits,
Shattering shimmering souls
In the incessant night, ****** red hue
Flowing
From Little girl Blue.

Years disappear
under shifting dunes
of days and endless nights.
A quiet cloaks
the ticking house
as summer falls
slowly on the crystal coast.
Evening tide is running out.
Days get shorter by the day;
moonrise comes early
above the straight blue line.

Through the faded curtain
a lone ship far out to sea,
a gull floating on a breeze,
driftwood on the shore.
A young boy casts his net
and pulls it back once more.
Catching memories
discarded in the sand;
another dune is born.
He turns his back upon the ship
and wanders home.

r ~ 8/5/14

they asked...
"why do you write most when you're sad?"

it took me awhile to think.
but didn't answer.

I just started writing
then realized,
because no one will understand
if I tell them they would laugh

if i tell them of what I really feel,
the dreams and hopes, or of what person I've always wanted to be

they wouldn't understand
some would think it's nonsense and some will try to listen but it won't any make sense

because we are all in our own.

everyone are busy saving their own lives

and happy poems?

it's hard for me to take time and jot the fleeting feelings of how the flowers bloom in spring and how summer gives me the time to contemplate on an infinite waves

I just want to feel the moment, for myself.

Then I would feel better.

just like writing sad poems,

it would make me feel better.

paint skies dark as ink
where the moonlight is at its peak
solace, what i seek