Your voice is a pale yellow, said the boy who
Etched colors into sounds. What he didn't say was that her
Loneliness dyed it that color, and that mosaics
Like her are much more that that; but she can't see herself as art.
Only a broken heart sewn together by shaking fingers,
Whittling away on a train to somewhere.

Losing herself to the roar of a motorcycle with wings she questions;
Are you going to destroy the world?
Understandably all he did was laugh in response, but the
Girl learned to laugh as well. And she
Held on a little tighter.

A smile like the sun on a hot summer day
Cracks open the darkness and peeks out from
Corners of the dirtied bathroom stall;
Other days seemed so hollow that she could
Merely be flung into the air like thin sheets of
Paper with a gust of wind; but today she
Lost herself in a boy who simmered in the pool.
In an instant she learned to live. And, when given the
Choice, rather than take to the air once again, she
Enlisted in his army.

wandering in a drugless daze
among wafting dreams and empty speech bubbles
a soft acoustic plays against white walls
as we search for some sort of meaning in blank canvases
we're drowning in nothing.
we're drowning in uncertain futures
and teetering on tight ropes whilst looking down.
and yet we wake up the next day and brush aside
the colors we mixed too much on our palette
as well as the ones we don't dare to touch.
hello sleepwalkers,
dropping dead one by one from buildings
dreams of growing wings splattered on the asphalt.
hello sleepwalkers,
pressed for answers
and squeezed in between questions.
hello sleepwalkers,
the children of yesterday, the voices of tomorrow,
the unshakable nausea of ******* up and loneliness
of today.

Our future gloomy uncertainty,
Uncharted as the rolling sea.
Doubtful monsters slither in the water
To ****** at our feet and
Drag us beneath the deep.
Sinking and separated, we're whipped
By the pale winds of indebted and petty misery.
Never to return, never to return
To a place we used to know
Or to whom we used to be.
Seeking refuge like heathens in heather,
We friends meet again,
(If only in thought or misty memory),
And band together in stormy weather,
Clasping hands tight.
Incessantly pressing
Onward, guessing everything might be alright.
Even in different boats, 'long different shores,
And under unclear skies...
We find each other under the same moon.
Floating in the same ocean,
Traveling by the same wind.

sometime i suppose
God created the horizon line at the end of the world
and He made it so that
we were unable to see past it

but what He did not know
was that we are dreamers, us poets
we saw the horizon line and chased after it;
when we got tired, we sat down and
dreamt of life beyond the horizon
and we put it to words,
music to our tongues and
sweet love to our world

winding, twisting, curling, fraying
ropes tangle themselves in between my fingers,
dripping red for passion and blue for despair,
veins slinking out of my skin like nervous snakes,
and the hollowed plaster called bone follows after.

a myriad of jesters howl and hoot and holler
and then drop to a deadly whisper.
they say i should die or something because
the joke only runs for so long before it begins to grow old
and mold like a hard piece of bread.

and the snakes weave trails in the dust on the ground
they tie up my legs as the ropes ensnare my wrists
the jesters hush, watching with diamond eyes
if i try to look into them for some sort of answer
i may as well bury myself before im disappointed again