today i cut off some of my hair with a pink razor

and now i keep finding half-inch strands

all in my shirt
and on my wrists
and even once on this page

and ever since i've been
waiting
for that new freeing
feeling

the one you're supposed
to get
when you're listening to soft
music

and you're not sure what your
hair will look like
when it dries

and that sun ––

that sun is peeling through the
leaves just to meet your gaze

then blind you.

i've been waiting,
and waiting,
and waiting.

yet all i feel is this
silly complacence and a
slight mourning for all the
time i've wasted.

and through these former pages
i can see the indentions
of the pressure
my hands have pressed
into these former pages

and i wonder what it was
that caused me to apply
so much force

to a 5cent yellow mechanical
pencil

that can do no more than
breathe sentience into my
thoughts,

my drawling thoughts,

and remind me that i've been
wearing gym shorts and a
grey t-shirt with the logo of
a bar i've never even been
to before

for about three days now.

i guess

i'm expecting the wrong things
to fill me up.

telling me to find
my way out of
the dark, like
cold hands on my
neck, like blankets
on my spine, like
a distraction in the
form of thoughts about
her. the all-encompassing
fact haunts me that
i am important,
and that that alone
is my burden to
bear.
like sleepy sweet
eyes and the jagged
edge of his canines,
i'm wrought to accept
that the validity of
my very real purpose
can be found in the
eyes of my Father.
i am so scared.
the night weans and
wears, but somehow
the lights are on and
the falsified bright burns
red through my eyelids.

don't know what it is about this time of year,
but the neighborhood can never sleep.
the moon is nigh and space is too wide and our thoughts are invading like wandering sheep.
there's a lurch in my gut, i'm praying, begging for luck,
i need less than what is stirring and reluctantly killing my brain.

not that the ness
is gone she's found
herself carrying a
burden of pure
boredom. the dusk
falls and she all
but grimaces at it,
rips out more hair,
waits for the sun
to **** her new skin,
she is *******,
she is the unbearable
weight of standing
still while falling.
her eyes are not
blind, but she
keeps them shut
in fear that one
day they will be.
she is years of
sixteen, of sundays.
her hair is dark
but it reflects every
light she passes.
she will keep pounding
this pencil, examining
her fate, shifting blocks
around in hopes of
forming a circle. the
only thing enough
for her lies on
the other side of
the canyon, where
interstitial a
great danger looms.
she has been
falling
falling
falling
forever,
and one cannot
help but wonder
when her dear
havoc will end.

i can hear their downstairs laughter,
their pattering feet,
i wouldn't say it aloud but
this is the first time i've felt
something in weeks.