I became so contempt
with watching the performance
that I forgot my cue.

The show went on.

i'll be dancing on your tightrope
praying that the winds don't change

December came and went
without notice of your departure.

but when January rolled around and fruit cake and sparkling lights no longer littered my home, it felt empty and i remembered how full and intense your presence was and how i longed for what we almost,
but never fully, had.

Suicide was her seventh grade kiss that didn't let go when she did.

Suicide was the brightest star in the sky. Every night she would pick it out among the rest.

Suicide was the white around her eyes. You saw it when you looked at her, but it never stood out to you

Until her iris turned black.

Fall away into sweeter dreams, where tears are but the morning dew escaping the sun.

Sleep in fields of abundant ecsasty, where cupids need no arrows as love
is melody.

Dream of memories mirroring     mesmorising scenes. Where plants      dance to the rhythm of the wind.
Elation being the theme.

The ink smothers papers in unforgiving battles of writers.

Where fame outweighs the need for imagery, the structures aimed to be masterpieces, broken into master pieces.

The imagery lost with the message as words wonder about in disorganized sequences.

The meaning becomes opaque, as perspiration drowns the paper,panicing impatiently your words are flooded in pools of poems, so they fade and drift away, without any views or likes only dismay is displayed.