There is nothing keeping me here—
Paper aeroplanes encircle my head,
Boarding my thoughts to faraway places,
And I pace faster and faster, seeking purpose
In the dull trees without the love of life—
Even the greenery wilts under the pressure
Of the city—all we can do is keep unremittingly
Busy, words zero degrees, and shoulders cold.
A smile is only a pad of butter, sweet and sickly,
Disguising the anxious want of another lost soul.
I spin in place, waiting for the sky to change,
And give peace under the umberous dark,
But even in the dredges of midnight, 

The sky is a sluggish fog of pollution,
And my lungs shudder from the thought
Of the poison not only inhaled, but filling our
Young minds, brimming with manipulated
Falsity—again the aeroplanes, they want
To take me away, despite the knowledge
That nowhere is free of its problems. 

There is nothing keeping me here,
But sometimes clarity comes
from staying still.

Gratified storm clouds,
Rain that never stops,
Slowing its downpour—
Did all of those tears
Travel down the drains,
Through the aquaducts,
To the Earth’s core?

Has that become the
Epicenter of our world:
The Sky's Sorrow?

Unending frustration
Over the workings
Of a brain I did not
Design—and knowledge
That its shortcomings
Revolve around a reason,
One that is perfect,
And not the vacillating
Mess I condemn of it.
Why must I want to be
Anyone but the person
Under these meninges? 

I am not who think I am,
But who is that to

Begin with?

His face was stitched together
With Grief--a Frankenstein’s
Monster searching for his grave.
But he held it together because
Of the angel eyes that looked
Up at him as if she saw the
Tired lines and blood leaking
From his torn sutures, and
Only smiled, hugging him, and
Never mentioning the pain she
Was trying to heal with love.