Quite ugly, aren’t they?
The words that aren’t yours,
but still spill from your pen -
that roll off your tongue,
yet feel stolen again.
A symphony turned to pandemonium,
a melody that doesn’t impress -
This poem isn’t mine,
but I’m writing it nonetheless.

At the foot of a world
that doesn’t know my name,
that doesn’t know my love,
and doesn’t know my shame.
You’ll be deafened by its roar
and the stomping on the floor,
and when there’s nothing left to give
that’s when it takes a little more.
It’s bent me broken once again,
the world I thought was a friend -
if it turns its back on me,
would it finally be the end?

A woven blanket,
stripes down the length.
It’s here I see
nature’s final strength.
The sun christens my eyes,
it blinds every blade -
but whatever’s the point
in finding shade?
For shade is a myth,
just as heat from the sun,
it represents nothing,
it’s everything and one.
Your soul exists
in the fabric of the stars,
the stars exist
in the fractures of your scars.
The leaves a thread,
evil woven out of time,
but the rest locked in step -
it’s nature’s finest rhyme.
The symmetry we know,
the symmetry we see,
is nothing to the fabric -
it’s everything and free.

It’s brief and it’s beautiful,
a celestial osculation
that showers the sky a thousand brilliant colors.
The light remains,
and the distance begins.
Hence the beauty.

I find myself at the edge of the world,
feet aching and heart sore from the night,
having danced on the wind
like it blew just for me.
It’s hard to tell from inside,
but out here it’s clear:
there’s nothing beyond this point.

She uses up every last drop of rain
like there’s nothing to spare,
drying up her heart
until it wilts and rots in the sun.

Sometimes my words come out as static
and my legs don’t work quite right,
so I wind up the spring in my lower back
to act myself for the night.
A puppet existing in someone else’s world,
or a marionette doll mastered by myself.
Sometimes I wish I could let go,
so they would leave me on the shelf.