If want was water,
I would be drowning, my head under completely
and my oxygen quickly depleting.
If confusion was cold,
My fingers would be numb and I wouldn't even
have a coat to ward off the freezing.
If youth was you,
It would be slipping away by the second,
And I can't get a hold to stop it.
Now,
my air is gone,
I'm shivering to the bone,
and can't keep a hold on.
But, this is only a poem:
I know I'm not suffocating, subzero, or slipping.
But I can't help but feel like the more I write,
the farther I get from reality
and the closer I get to metaphor mortality.

I don’t know who I am going to be tomorrow but
Right now,
I am a broken hearted fool.



«c.h.b.»

The stars are falling.

Creating comets that streak my cheeks
And fall into a space that I can’t remember.

Forming at my feet are static clusters from their burnout-
Fading against the background into nothingness.