I don't understand myself.
And for once,
I think that's ok.
Because I love you, and you love me, and that's enough.
I tried to write a-
But then ran out of room, So-
I let my words play.
Sometimes a haiku
Has just enough of the sounds
To tell a story.
When all there is left to do is work, Work.
Tbh this piece is my procrastination which I find hysterically ironic.
We have such a strange friendship,
You and I,
With You, knowing everything about me,
struggling to find the right words to say hello.
Pool girls, chocolate swirls,
A summer left behind,
Closed books, open chapters,
Alone, but for the world.
It is a unique form of self torture
To visit a place you once called home
And to be met with only the unknown.
This was my home.
I don't want to say goodbye again.
Happy holidays everyone.
They ask us to write a simple string of words and not to sing a song,
Chosen few, left struggling silent, a sense of agony prolonged,
A flickering flame to steal away the air and take inturn my soul unburned;
left bereft of spoken thought,
My fingers for me whisper fiercely,
Release in pain silent words wrought.
I'm scared of the night,
The end of the day, the life, the light.
I know I should revel in its beauty, the cloudless star-lit sky,
River-lakes lit with eerie phantasms,
Mist a cool kiss against my throat.
Instead I run, terrified, into light so bright it blinds and tears away every feeling, until fear itself burns brighter than the sun in the day.
What would the child say?
To the monster
that's scared of the dark?
Titled: The Monster Under The Bed
— The End —