I twirl my umbrella.
Not over me, since I'm far from excited,
or happy.

I stepped out into the rain after work.

Opening it
I realized,

it had a hole,

and is now worthless,
but I would hate to let it go.

My grandmother passed it down to my mother and my mother gave it to me.

Before she passed.

A sad old lady,
stubborn and empty.

This umbrella reminds me of that.
A part of her I hated,
but can’t let go of.

She was still my mother.

And so I twirl it,
closed and hidden,
to my right.

The same side she laid on.
When Grim came near.
There, she stared at me
with her glossy blue eyes
and said her last furrow-browed “Hello”.

I'm like a tree in winter,
only, a subtle difference;
they sleep through the cold.

I'm like a tree in winter,
although, all seasons,
make my insides rot.

See, the thing is,
my trunk is freezer burnt,
I've stopped growing,
branches are falling off,

I’m a dying tree

in a forest

blooming with

creativity.

My eyes shot up,
a fast motion
from the sink to my face

queued laughter
                                and
                            ­            a
                                            goosebu­mp
                                                              ­      waterfall

all the way down
to my left toe
big and soft.

I washed my earthy hands
as panic spread through my limbs
a slow tune.

Glossy red shade
                                
                                 laminating my sclera.

My mind circled around answers
to what happened,
precious secrets

kept solitary - for a quiet night.

J'me tient la tête haute
au dessus des gnomes qui m'étrangle
ceux qui me déchire en quatre
un quart de chaque partie de ma vie
la divisions de mes toutous à mes devoirs
de mes rêves à mes obligations.
Un cadre d'illusions hypnotiques
qui change mon sens, mes vérités
une jungle bourré de fautes
, mais j'apprends.
Tu te remplis la face de tromperie
espèce de crédule, tu penses qu'à toi
t'avale plus. Tout ressort.
T'es rendu seule, au bout de ton siège
une aiguille à la gorge, mince et mortelle.
Mes gnomes, violent et tordu,
sont fait de porcelaine
ils coulent le regret
comme mes quarts, qui explode d'un grand

rien.

My heart grows,
and my cracks, with it.
I'm boiling
a steamy mess,

this anger,
popping in, with a grand “Hello”!
They lift their shields,
wresting my weapons.

I anxiously cope,
knotting a sense of self,
to my cowardice,
in vain.

Their support,
bends and molds me.
You smile.
It's reciprocated.

You tear me open.
My snick,
held by untrusted twine.
Split cotton ends; no soft ones at that.

My heart may grow.
My smile does not.
My ears attentive,
to tension, beyond my grasp.

Hoarse and devil-like.
He was blue.
Charming and flew;
a shooting star,
but below earth.
Below observable boundaries.
Not real; made-up.
Ocean huge,
blue, not fire.
Burnt, patched-up
by tears flowing high
away from the stars.
The sky lit up
with solitude's abyss.
It wrapped him up
with social boundaries.

Close-winged angel.
She was velvet-red.
Hopeful and greedy;
catastrophe struck,
enveloping their home,
bounding her sight.
SHE,
VELVET RED,
full of life; unwanting of it.
Her soft heart
grows dark.
"Look" - "She wants it".
She cried; blood - pain.
A hole she dug with society's help.
Tied her down - with social boundaries.

I went towards the light.
You went towards the clouds.

I don't mind how blinding it is.
I mind you missing.

I had something to say to you,
but you ran towards the fog.

I'll fight my blindness.
So that I can melt into your heart.

And,

finally get to tell you;
my heart's desire.