The skin beneath my eyes
is getting quite thin again
Spiders thread their webs of red
under eyelids gravitating towards sleep.

She wore blue, blue velvet
Bluer than velvet were her eyes
Warmer than May, her tender sighs
Love was ours

She wore blue, blue velvet.
That's all I remember from that night.
The fading sun shines, shattering down on her,
a velvet voice pulls in the sky.

She wore blue, blue velvet
Bluer than velvet was the night
Softer than satin was the light
From the stars

Soft was the hair of such royalty,
and those who met her loved her lies.
They dreamed of blue, blue velvet,
dreamed of grandeur and starry nights.
Beauty turns heads while lush ball gowns sweep 
through the door.

Ours, a love I held tightly
Feeling the rapture grow
Like a flame burning brightly
But when she left, gone was the glow of
Blue velvet

To any other, she is beautiful,
not a flaw within their sight.
Her gathering gaze did enthrall them all,
her voice tied them with a bow.

But in my heart there'll always be
Precious and warm a memory, through the years
And I still can see blue velvet through my tears

I see a human, a lonely soul in pain,
one with sharp hands and wiry hair,
and I still see past her velvet, after all these years.  

She wore blue velvet
But in my heart, there'll always be
Precious and warm a memory through the years
And I still can see blue velvet through my tears

I see my sweet love, simple,
wearing blue velvet,
and I am the only one who knows.

DRAFT
All that glisters is not gold. 7
(To) Those who think not: let it be told. 8
Take heed the lessons I could not grasp, 9
And perhaps your gilt chains might just unclasp. 10

End:
i realized it was (but) the the blind who told me I could not see;
For I slid off my contacts, and saw the same (aureate) world...







I had begun to look upon [] with shame, pity, and disgrace
Angelic _ _ threads no longer etched in his face
The silver lining is gone, gray and rust take its place


Now when I look upon him, 'tis not a look of love, but of pity, shame, and disgrace, because I killed him and made him a prince maybe

I created a world where the rust washed away
Crumbling as easily as freshly fallen snow
The same icy snow that melts into the hearts of the crown's next fallen victim




The sword drops from my hand as I lay in defeat

But the earth never took me as one of its own
My skin and my flesh stood fast on my bones

I laid there and cried for what seemed like a million tears
But even the purest water(add: ,the purest apology,the purest regret) from the depths of my soul could never let the earth take me
My eternal love for you, it will never let me go




Time after time, day after day
Pondering life as it all turns to gray
The leaves and the sky stay the same, always_ _
I laid all alone yet I never did fade.

Time after time, day after day,
I laid all alone waiting for something to change



As I pass though the graveyard I stop and I smile
A flower is laid on an old marble grave
The words on the stone were ones I had known very well
A familiar stone etching of words once carved in my heart
"An ephemeral limerance, ceased at long last"

I press flowers because I like it.
The thrill of thievery, of plucking irreplaceable beauty from those who can't see it anyway,
wild eyes daring passing cars to not slow down
for the girl holding flowers between her teeth.
And I ran and I thieved for a love of my own,
a secret I shared only with passing cars and the once perfect gardens.

But I began to press the life out of beauty, to preserve it for you,
and my past theft seemed selfish, childish, and frankly, insane.
I still ran and I thieved for a love, just not my own;
Countless cherished petals fluttered to the paper as I smiled,
eyes glossing over each work of precious taxidermy.
Every page of crushed life spelled out anything for you
and my wide loving eyes could see nothing wrong.

As I ran, my long hair no longer flew in the wind,
the few remaining strands stuck limply to my wrinkled skin.
I grew weak, stems slipped through my desperate fingers,
so much beauty was too much for shaking skeleton hands.
My eyes barely opened and were coated in haze.
I searched for flowers but then found winter instead.
I heard August bees, but they buzzed around twigs,
couples exchanged bouquets of sticks and dried leaves.
My sight faded more, and I welcomed it, beaming.
Shrinking to the ground, all I saw were gray clouds:
the very clouds I used to not notice,
the same grayness someone taught me to love.

What can fool someone so far to think the sun has gone cold?
Was it August's pollen showers? Could they really be mistaken for snow?
Are sun scorched sidewalks so white-hot that they numb barefoot toes?
How can something pave the world in grayness and shadow even beauty that was preserved?
Can something so simple make gray clouds greater than gold?
But then why is it so terrible to see beauty in the dull?
It is love that can make gray clouds greater than gold,
but it is also love that can dim the rest of the world.

I still run and I thieve, but not for a love of my own.
I plant beauty on every empty doorstep,
for the love of others,/for others to find their love even if it is unknown.
Because I shook my bones until only pennies fell out,
but pennies are just pocketed rust to those who are afraid to love/ to those who have no time to love

In apple growing-warmth,
I found oceans between eyelashes and Pacific air.

Ligamented with smoke, skeleton hands crafted cigarettes of honey and curling floral sweetness.

For soft-haired royalty, I bowed my heart and washed my skin in space and rainy wishes.

I drowned myself in polish remover, to show the stripped beauty of love and life
to a sun who lives off alcohol and notions of wouldn't it be nice?

But I, the noiseless patient spider,
who has flung gossamer after thread,
am reaching for nothing but an earth flower,
One who I thought loved me,
or at least that’s what she said.
((one who sees through rose-pink eyeglasses,
and speaks in feathered song.))

Still, I sleep well under starless skies,
where urban northern lights burn the dark,
charred there by city windows and boundless passing cars.

Here, I wrap myself in a cloth galaxy,
and I paint the sun with blackberry juice,
trading gold and diamonds for the simple hope
that someone might live up to you.

Every day the sun stretched over the songbird’s ivory tower.
Nighttime ivy ringlets caught and pulled, like taffy,
sunshine tendrils into rocky satellite white.
She swung sunbeams into starlight
And I thought it'd drone on forever.
//
Every dawn the sun stretched over the songbird’s ivory tower.
Nighttime ivy ringlets caught sunshine tendrils,
pulled them into rocky satellite white, like taffy.
She swung sunbeams into starlight,
And I thought it'd drone on forever until

I realized that sprinkled sugar cookies made hands numb flammable,
that you can't feel them again until they leave the powder blue locker room,
until they're in the car, worried they might melt the steering wheel, when they’re left to figure out why.

Now streetlights gassed with Canadian lypophrenia
make snowflakes float like stardust,
while splintered lilac fingertips trace meaningless constellations,
as they ponder whether daisies can tell
if someone loves you,
                                       or not.

With firefly breath, I wished on dandelion dust
for December's cruel weather to warm,
so we could sleep forever on the concrete floor
and it'd feel like Pennsylvania moss and twigged leaves.
We’d swing dance in the sidewalk cracks
drowning in footsteps and manhole steam.
Saturn would bloom to petal dust in your wake
and you would never feel small.

And I thought cocoa butter was our solace,
that you'd be drenched in chocolate wishes
that turn ribboned skin to soft smile scars.
The Earth would lay enveloped and confessed-
a dripping orb of love and light thrown against
the burning oblivion of the universe.
I pull in the horizon like a great fish net
So much life in its meshes!
I call in your soul to come and see.

With the spring equinox, four-leaf clovers withered and died,
still-lit birthday candles melted into oceans
and heads-up pennies piled into roadway castles,
unwanted, unneeded by someone who forgot who she was.
I thought, for a moment, that I'd been wrong.

Within that rim of rose, there is ungravity and life on Mars.
But this world is a rememory of drought and oil spills,
drowning you in a warm, sweet, malignant blanket
of braided brown hair and tokyo tickets.
To you, my whispering lips screamed for palmers-
for 13 ounces of memories that were never mine,
and still, you slathered it on.

Our streetlights set and the sun flickered out,
the pennies I never reached for, someone else had picked up,
and the clovers I ignored, I now ached for with all my heart.
Eyes streaming, I reached for a shooting star,
but the night does end, dawn always rises,
and my precious last chance melted in my desperate hands

because i fall in love with everyone
and my lips are never chapped
  so now i eat cinnamon toast
   and I paint the sun
    with blackberry juice

In apple-killing cold, stars fade in the amber glow of tiger's eyes,
gray clouds are still bursting with starlight,
willow trees will forever weep diamonds,
and daylilies still steal away sleep.

I could never solely blame my God, he has been here for a while.
He's lost some hairs, chipped some teeth, it's understandable.
The cataracts are setting in, his hair grayed alongside the Bible,
He's a busy man, he's made mistakes,
and I am no stranger to his work.

The spoons are disappearing
The world is ending
I need my spoon
I cannot live, so I suppose I shall die
I take the spoon in my trembling hand
Straight to my heart goes the painful command
Pain, so much pain
The sorrow that it gave
A pale white chest
Stained with the red aches
The hurt and the pain
Will soon go away
A limp hand unfurls
But nothing appears
Not a sound on the floor
As the pain burns on more
The murderous weapon is no longer there
The murderous weapon was never there

There is no spoon
My spoon had been stolen
The world is ending
But still my heart churns
Blood after blood
Leaking and spilling
Cascading over my stone cold bones
But nothing has been done
The void inside that longs to be filled
Still forgotten
Still unwanted
For my heart is still owned
By the blind hand of doom
That brought me to my death

It's raining outside...
with drops of a different kind,
tarred with morality and sin.
I can feel it, but not on my skin
it melts, like mired paper snow,
eyes brim with flakes of commas, ellipses, and unblinked zeugmas
that they thought I'd never know

But I absorb every drop-
every antidote, every toxic remark
they eat away at my soft and white
cancerous to gently marrowed bones
yet I long for the slipping
of soft yellow butter on flaky warmed toast
simply resting onto the surface, eternally

I used to breathe in at the sight of you
Excitement, enticement
A gasp of joy, a flash of euphoria
But now I breathe out whenever I see you
A sigh of longing, a breath of regret
The ardent warmth from my lungs
Turned twisted frost in your arctic air

I press flowers because I like it.
The thrill of thievery, of plucking irreplaceable beauty from those who can't see it anyway,
wild eyes daring passing cars to not slow down
for the girl holding flowers between her teeth.
I was good, I was just, I took only what I needed,
my happily dirt-stained fingertips treated each preserved beauty with the utmost love
And I ran and I thieved for a love of my own,
a secret I shared only with passing cars and the once perfect gardens.

But passing cars contain people, and people have gardens,
and everyone knew
So I began to press the life out of beauty, and I did it only for you.
I still ran and I thieved for a love, just not my own;
Countless cherished petals fluttered to the paper as I smiled,
my now gloved sterile hands caressing sallow dahlias and florid roses,
eyes glossing over each work of precious taxidermy.
Every page of crushed life spelled out made just for you!
and my gold tipped spotless fingertips could see nothing wrong.

As I ran, my long hair no longer flew in the wind,
the few remaining strands stuck limply to my wrinkled skin.
I grew weak, stems slipped through my desperate fingers,
so much beauty was too much for shaking skeleton hands.
My eyes barely opened and were filled with fear,
Who would pay attention to me if I had no pressed flowers to bear?
I searched for flowers and found winter instead.
But people still came for more, asking and pleading,
confused, saying that there were countless flowers, ripe for the picking.
I heard August bees, but they buzzed around twigs,
happy couples exchanged bouquets of sticks and dried leaves.
Could there really be flowers I wasn't seeing?
I looked down at my hands, gold fingertips cracked and worn.

My sight faded more, and I welcomed it, beaming.
I didn't need to see if people told me what they needed.
I picked sallow dahlias and breathed in florid roses,
filled orders and was met with smiles, laughter, and love,
until August was over, until the need for flowers
had completely dried up.

In September I waved at passing cars, varnished nails flashing,


I still run and I thieve for a love not my own.
But I plant beauty on every empty doorstep,
for others to find their love even if it is unknown.
Because I shook my bones until only pennies fell out,
but pennies are just pocketed rust to those who are afraid to love/ to those who have no time to love/ to those who don't take the time to love


What can fool someone so far to think the sun has gone cold?
Was it August's pollen showers? Could they really be mistaken for snow?
Are sun scorched sidewalks so white-hot that they numb barefoot toes?
How can something pave the world in grayness and shadow even beauty that was preserved?
Can something so simple make gray clouds greater than gold?
But then why is it so terrible to see beauty in the dull?
It is love that can make gray clouds greater than gold,
but it is also love that can dim the rest of the world.


i did something I loved, but it became an industry, no longer for love but for profit, for image, to look cool/unique
people love doing something and then it becomes too much, corrupt, not for you anymore, so they have to remember why they do it, do it because you love it
the lorax
do what you love, people

I press flowers because I like it.
The thrill of thievery, of plucking irreplaceable beauty from those who can't see it anyway,
wild eyes daring passing cars to not slow down
for the girl holding flowers between her teeth.
I was good, I was just, I took only what I needed,
my happily dirt-stained fingertips treated each preserved beauty with the utmost love
And I ran and I thieved for a love of my own,
a secret I shared only with passing cars and the once perfect gardens.

But passing cars contain people, and people have gardens,
and everyone knew
So I began to press the life out of beauty, and I did it only for you.
I still ran and I thieved for a love, just not my own;
Countless cherished petals fluttered to the paper as I smiled,
my now gloved sterile hands caressing sallow dahlias and florid roses,
eyes glossing over each work of precious taxidermy.
Every page of crushed life spelled out made just for you!
and my gold tipped spotless fingertips could see nothing wrong.

As I ran, my long hair no longer flew in the wind,
the few remaining strands stuck limply to my wrinkled skin.
I grew weak, stems slipped through my desperate fingers,
so much beauty was too much for shaking skeleton hands.
My eyes barely opened and were filled with fear,
Who would pay attention to me if I had no pressed flowers to bear?
I searched for flowers and found winter instead.
But people still came for more, asking and pleading,
confused, saying that there were countless flowers, ripe for the picking.
I heard August bees, but they buzzed around twigs,
happy couples exchanged bouquets of sticks and dried leaves.
Could there really be flowers I wasn't seeing?
I looked down at my hands, gold fingertips cracked and worn.

My sight faded more, and I welcomed it, beaming.
I didn't need to see if people told me what they needed.
I picked sallow dahlias and breathed in florid roses,
filled orders and was met with smiles, laughter, and love,
until August was over, until the need for flowers
had completely dried up.

In September I waved at passing cars, varnished nails flashing,


I still run and I thieve for a love not my own.
But I plant beauty on every empty doorstep,
for others to find their love even if it is unknown.
Because I shook my bones until only pennies fell out,
but pennies are just pocketed rust to those who are afraid to love/ to those who have no time to love/ to those who don't take the time to love


What can fool someone so far to think the sun has gone cold?
Was it August's pollen showers? Could they really be mistaken for snow?
Are sun scorched sidewalks so white-hot that they numb barefoot toes?
How can something pave the world in grayness and shadow even beauty that was preserved?
Can something so simple make gray clouds greater than gold?
But then why is it so terrible to see beauty in the dull?
It is love that can make gray clouds greater than gold,
but it is also love that can dim the rest of the world.

They speak lines in chalk and blackboard,
scolded for not following the stars, but
contrarian eyes long for lonely basement grime,
while being stuffed with plastic normalcy;
They search for a savior, an empty ivory tower
of coughed smog and candied pipe breath.
                  under a dawn ocean,
                               we drew coastlines along maps of nowhere,
                                slept on the floors of skies
                                             we didn't know the name for.
Their love is chain links, decayed by daylight,
by a sun where only anti-rarity shines.
So slender bruises lace through skeletal smoke,
                   and wish for life to last just sixty years.
                                                         we're holding tightly onto saturn,    
                                                     ­                a blooming diamond, dust ring
                                                            ­                                          of the life we
                                                              ­                                    don't love

Like the way a sunbeam skips across a flitting fish's scales,
a browning maple leaf slips into the gutter during a storm.

The way butter yields and melts onto freshly warmed toast,
a pencil fights for movement as a sleepy hand drifts off.

The way greasy wrappers fall from an overflowing trashcan,
a cat's eyes blink slowly to tell you they love you.

The way a foot slams the gas to pass a changing yellow light,
a lost shoe clings to the sidewalk, waiting for its partner.

It is fleeting, immaterial, the way death shows itself to you-
skipping, slipping, melting, fighting, falling, blinking, slamming, clinging-
Oh! how it hurts so dearly to find
that every ounce of living
hints to your little life dying/ snuffing out.

i fall in love with everyone
and my lips are never chapped
  so now i eat cinnamon toast
   and i paint the sun
    with blackberry juice

Another dusk rose, another day fell
sometimes the gray smiled, sometimes the sun bawled
sun-ripe rays cast dusty shadows;
A tinkling tear tumbled through the atmosphere.

In those days I played with fire on the school playground,
and I cradled a minnow waiting at heaven's door.
In the moonlight, green eyes called me legend,
soft-haired royalty grew oceans of pine trees
that still shatter on every shore.
I've touched hands with the universe himself,
and I once slept on a lemon galaxy floor.
//each time, dandelion dust melted with candles, forgotten by those who needed nothing more.

Every day blackberries faded and vanillas would rot,
and cocoa butter was sold by those
who don't dissipate at the slightest touch.
So I painted every sunrise
with pitch black berry juice
and I ate my cinnamon toast
but still I thought of you.

Ah yes, here we are again.
Another heartbreak, each greater than the passed.
I long to bid adieu to the soft green grass
for I know that some day, it will cut me to my last.

Now love lays still with others' long lost past
wrapped softly under the greenest grass
cradled softly under
and my skin of nebulae and crescent stars
crawls, tattoo smudged with bittersweet earth.

Walking was once so weightless. But now I stand here, thoughtlogged, waterful. Gazing unblinkingly at the chlorine stained rocks, I rip the northern lights from my eyes. The thunder steals away, leaving ringing ears reaching for more, lightning returns to the sun. The storm is replaced with moldy gray smeared with cotton candy cirrus. Children make lemonade with no need for sugar, and passersby gulp too-big sips, and cavity drips from their rotting lips. Night falls, the children fold up their twenty-five cent stand and leave the lemon juice for the sweet-seeking hummingbirds. The children don't notice the grid in the sky. Glittering rows of nebulae and crescent stars framed the light-polluted navy; a hand imagined the constellations, drew them, and pasted each fraying corner, neatly, line to line, no coloring outside the lines, nothing left to the imagination. But wasn't that the point? To stare in wonder with someone you loved? Imagining, dreaming about the world beyond? Not a single corner/ piece was left unglued/ fluttering in the wind. There wasn't a single fluttering bit to peel back and reveal the ancient unknown wallpaper of the universe beneath.
I search for a cumulus to save me but I fall, finding the ground far too soon.

The whole world stopped
On that dreadful day
When the cold cruel water took you away
Everyone cried
And said their goodbyes
But you are never truly gone

It's been so long
And though it it painful
To those who love you the most
Your memory will always live on
Your jump rope still swinging
Your yo yo still spinning
You still live on in our hearts

I dissected a heart in biology
no one understood what it meant to me,
but it was because I'd never held one, before, myself.

Scouring bleach and formaldehyde
can never disguise the sickly sweet beat of butterflies
that lies, oh so quietly, on the shelf.

I had one too, some time ago,
and I've tossed pennies and blown for wishes,
but somehow now I've made my peace
with never getting it back

I sat on a playground of chlorine stained rocks,
swinging my legs, wearing mismatched socks.
Golden waves of grain swept before my eyes,
it slipped out of my grasp as I blindly wept.
it did not break, but was lost.

A second time, another demise:
a grocery store on roland and thirty-sixth,
I was hypnotized by spoken laughter,
green eyes held it and called me legend
but then forgot it, laying on the shelf.

On the shelf I sat for mere hours,
but could not stand thinking of none,
So I fell in love and waited for the ends of the earth,
searching for someone to tie myself to.
A hand reached for lemon and galaxy
So I soured my smile and sparkled my eyes,
but my gravity broke, my star went out,
while my strings were taut and devout.
and _ hands saw beyond my light and reached out to me,
with scissors sliced away my woven web from their hands,
and it dropped to the floor, misled.

After this I gave up,
gathered the pieces and strings,
and hammered and nailed them with my cut apart love.
But one day in the library, I drew a grapevine,
and its tendrils and swishes caught my fingers,
it turned toward the sky, grew an upturned nose,
and its grapes melted into dark brown eyes.
I rushed to the stairs to tape up my chest,
for my heart was, again, bleeding out.

I dissected a sheep in biology
no one understood what it meant to me,
but it was because I'd never held one myself.

Scouring bleach and formaldehyde
can never disguise the sickly sweet beat of butterflies
that lies, oh so quietly, on the shelf.

I had one too, some time ago,
and I've tossed pennies and blown for wishes.
But somehow now I've made my peace
with never getting it back

I sat on a playground of chlorine stained rocks,
swinging my legs, wearing mismatched socks.
Golden waves of grain swept before my eyes,
I blindly wept, it slipped out of my grasp, did not break, but was lost.

A second time, another demise,
at a grocery store on roland and thirty-sixth,
green eyes hypnotized and called me legend,
but then placed it neatly back on the shelf.

I picked a flower to press today,
to make ephemeral it's limmering beauty.
I stood, transfixed, staring far too long,
so long that, in fact, it had rotted away

I press flowers because I like it.
The thrill of thievery, of plucking irreplaceable beauty from those who can't see it anyway,
wild eyes daring passing cars to not slow down
for the girl holding flowers between her teeth.
And I ran and I thieved for a love of my own,
Until I began to press the life out of beauty, to preserve it for you.
I shook my bones until only pennies fell out.
I gave you everything, everything
and you said everything, and you meant nothing

On a street in the city at two p.m.,
three shadows hold each other's darkness within their looped hands.
Friendship is grown in the sidewalk cracks
and this human's condition was quite good.
But unsaid jokes splinter smiled eyes,
the sun trips united dark,
one hand is always left standing,
forever apart .

When yours touched mine, fingertips bloomed yellow petals
that fluttered gently between our breath,
words built raindrops that rivaled the sun,
and I forgot the dahlias of past lives.

This was the creation of springtime-
a fleeting moment of neverending-
a season I had never felt before.
Your hands pulled blankets over my frosted shoulders
and my skin grew sunflowers in thirty-two degrees.

Winter: when the Northern Hemisphere has bowed down to the sun,
when frostbite grips the most ardent heart until it loves no one,
when the fluttering pulse of the earth relies on life support,
when the wind casts an anemic cold through icy window panes,

just wait until that fateful night when city lights fade away,
until back doors slam with thrill as the sun melts into the trees,
until footsteps crunch through snow- but are then stopped dead in their tracks,
then upturned eyes reflect the flickering dark, and hands are warmed with love.
/ winter becomes bearable/ frostbite loses its grip for a while

To my dear astronomer, please know,
that although I may never see you again,
our lives are but a clear night in winter:
and you are a sky full of stars.

To my dear astronomer, please know,
that although I may never see you again,
our lives might always be steeped in bitter coldness,
but you are a clear sky full of stars.

For soothe I do know why I am so sad;
The one I love has left me for the dead.
I walk amidst the blades of soft green grass,
While each verdant bloom cuts me to my last.
My love for you was like a faithful sword,
'Till it ran back to where my heart was stored.
It struck me where I tick and ceased my tock.
My love for you, it will not ever stop

Laughing, I say that I always fall in love
at the end of March:

"Maybe it's the spring sun, forgotten, thawing out again,
dripping its rays on my serotonin-deprived shoulders."

"Or could it be Christ? Hallelujah! He's risen again!
I praise the Lord, clasp my hands, recite Psalm 3.1415!
The word of the Lord. Thanks be to God."

But perhaps it's none of that, maybe
I've found my soulmate, mi media naranja.
Maybe the word at should be changed to with:

I've fallen in love with the end of March;
and I will see you again next year, my love.

Days, months have gone by, and somehow I'm still gathering (caught in) strings. Dropping my scissors, I pick one up and see echoes, and listen to the words I should not have written. What I should have said let's go to bed before you say something real still scratched into my wished (alternate universe) little memory let's go to bed before you say how you feel. I fold the northern lights neatly on the top shelf of my closet to leave it there, maybe forever. I wonder if something so bright will be able to collect dust. I reach for my scissors but they had stretched into threads just like everything else that touches it (the memory). Someone walks by the closed window outside I can't call you a stranger I recognize him. but I can't call you The clock says 7:03 for the first time in years and I close my eyes, willing myself to forget. I reach through the tangles of strings intertwined for a distraction and see my wall covered in posters. I try to take one off and it rips I've pinned each and every hope on you I shouldn't have taped them. I reach to turn on my lamp waiting for the hint of a spark to see the ripped paper but it does not turn on I will follow you into the dark it must be out of battery. I see my bed through the cracked shadows across my room but I can't reach it. I surrender to the threads and close my eyes on the floor. I wake up in a strange place somewhere I'd never have known my room just as it used to look but with one string left, right in front of me. I step past it and into a field of wildflowers golden rose, the color of the dream I had Pale dahlias spot that there's a lack of color here the bright field. I’ve always hate dahlias, but for some reason, I don't really mind them anymore I always knew

As a flitting dart of orange, barely seen,
who rots in slumber, blocked from verity.
With mirrors and sharp corners on all sides,
He can't see through his endless window pain.
So desperate to escape, he lost all hope,
and turned away from bliss and all he sought.
He joined a school of fish to stay afloat,
and traded loneliness for tedium.
And thus his scales did fade and thoughts did rot;
he brooded in ennui and seemed but dead.
With years of being stuffed and nullified,
the hand of age plucked him from his small home
and dropped him in the porcelain unknown,
Half dead, he slammed through rusting murky ducts,
to find the endless blue of nameless deep.
Around him rushed strange colors, never seen,
so distant from the square life he had lived.
The tank left his mind blinded, bleached, and deaf,
so unprepared for this world of rare souls.
He looks down at his faded snowflake scales,
and thinks of what he was, but now is not.
So we now gladly enter senior year,
restlessly waiting to be flushed.

As the moon rises above skyscrapers, an ecosystem is revealed. Aluminum candy wrappers shine under streetlights against the gritty black tarmac. Flying in a majestic arc, the pigeon swoops to a nearby trash can and feeds on greasy fast food papers and stale hot dog buns. Satisfied, the pigeon ruffles its gray wings and flies low along the road, watching the dashed yellow lines move faster and faster, until it is hit by a car. Here lies nature.

To wilting dandelions,
I ask the same old question every time,

"Tell me, when I grow old,
will my decayed hands work or shake too much?"

I hope I can climb trees,
and watch my scratched guitar weave through the pines:

High in the canopy,
gazing through branches at the one I love.

We play blue melodies
and feel blessed by the sun.

How can I live in a world where I outlive everything I love?
A portrait preserves beauty, but not the life, lies, and everything I've ever spoken of.
True, time can devoid meaning, it can soften the blow,
but then the remembrance of the tenderest touch
is reduced to the distant flick of a snowflake against a ***** window.

If art reveals the spectator and not life, what, then, what has the spectator spent so much time living?
Has he not lived this thing called life?
He looks to the painting as an equal, not a mirror.
Each painted rose ****** his skin with forgotten thorns,
each crafted dove reminds of those long-lost, whom he mourns.
Reaching past/ through every frame, he extends his life,
he learns, remembers, and is forewarned
of his own work of life, for which time always sought,
painted with nothing but his own brush of thought.

When sad sorrow shines bright and hope is dim,
liberation is sought by troubled souls
who tumble too close to the fatal brim
of a cliff where faith sinks beyond control.
'Cross the horiz'n there's a glint of gold gates
where calm waters wait among the smooth stones.
In the sound of the world, this is the place:
a solace for souls and rest for the bones.
Where flashing lies turn to soft gentle eyes
as their dreams are cradled by omniscient trees,
healing waters flow through the wish-filled skies,
and those once weary sing strong in the breeze.
This must be the place where dull shadows shine
and even dreaded darkness dares to dream.

To Love! I owe my life to Thee!
To Your light that evermore shines.
You teach Truth, that Objectivity
is a lie of human design;
that Goodness lies in each person,
next to Fear, Hate, and Desire;
that Reason is but a figment
of a coward's denying mind,
that even with the slightest Touch,
like the flick of a flake of snow
against a ***** paned window,
the hardest hearts will melt, they will;
Just watch their fingertips unfurl!
Misguided saps can drip love, too!
But alas, they are trapped by Fear.
Thus they bury their heads in Logic
and ignore their very core.

So I call on Love's disciples!
Extend your hand, your warmth, your care,
Come, now, help guide these stubborn souls.
For as they say, "the truth will out!"
So go on and please, teach the world!
Share Love's wise truths about humans
And their loving and subjective nature.

a girl with shoulder-length hair walked through the room and everyone stared at her like sunlight. she wore sunshine sweatshirts and smelled like fresh paint, but she felt as though she were nothing. her favorite color was yellow, but convinced herself that she only loved crackled smoke and clear alcohol. I smiled at her beached hair and freckled top lip because in her hands, she carried light that filled the chlorine-stained air. at night she looks in the mirror, stares through her skin, through her marrow and bones, and watches her soul and condemns it there. she sees nothing, no pigment, not even black. according to her, she isn't even good enough for that. so, she paints her nails with yellow polish, wears yellow hoodies, yellow socks, to remind her of the sunshine, and in hopes that maybe one day, her soul will be yellow again, too.

O my soul! How filled to the brim you are,
After ages of drought and sorrow.
You are, my dear, like a cloud, nimbostratus,
Who flies over sand, ocean, and clay.
You are but human; we cry salty tears
And your heartstrings absorb their ocean spray,
taking up their laughter, acid rain and
You billow up into the stratosphere;
O my soul- you can feel the warm sun!

In drought, you were stranded- cold and alone,
Your winds and precipitation, frozen.
Desperate hands could not even reach the sun.
O but feel! Now you're full of life and rain!
The wind! How it rushes! Your love! It pours!
Precious red drops overflow from your core.
With you, I watch as the world is colored with our love.
And I hope never to touch the ground again.

When I was young I had wrinkled skin,
just as now I have soft hair.
And even now I feel the pain of love,
just like when I was young and widowed.
When I was young I had tunnels etched into my bones,
but I still write and draw like I once did.
When I was young I had such life, such zest for anything,
and now that life has dwindled none,
but lies incomprehensible to the ignorant man.
It can only be seen by those who choose to see
through wrinkled skin.
And now I'm old, with such life within,
and yet I sit here,
because I have soft hair
and smooth skin

After years on this earth, I have weathered and grown.
As a child, I did things, I had joy, love, and goals.
In early summers, my life was a canvas for scar tissue:
hot pebbles burned soft skin into calloused glory,
the sun beat down and leathered my skin,
chlorine and dirt turned my young hair to gray.

When I was young, I etched tunnels in my bones,
with crayon and marker, I forged deep ivory valleys.
Some see this as cruelty, a sad deterioration,
but this atrophy is experience, the catalyst of life!

Years later, I sit here next to a painted sunrise.
With jell-o, gray matter rots on my styrofoam tray.
I wish for the summer, hot pebbles, and crayons,
for the laughter of youth and its calloused adventures.

But I've retired, so I sit idly in this plastic wheeled chair,
watching monitors beeping with ebbing heart lines,
grieving for my gray hair as it turns back to brown,
mourning, as my unused bones fill with marrow to the brim,
watching, heartbroken, old age clutching my hand,
as my wrinkled skin smooths away.

I was walking one day,
between the expanse of forgotten
woods that lay behind my cabin.

I say forgotten
perhaps because of the inheritance,
perhaps because the last time I
set my bare feet into this dirt,
I was a child.

As I followed the water,
in my mind's eye I could see,
the beauty of my mother,
as white as a tree.

the stream took a bend and I went for a dip,
and from the sky of my eyes
one thousand tears did drip.

for astounded, now, I stood
silent and still,

the echoes of the willows,
whispered with the minnows,
merely mirroring shadows,
of a memory,
unearthed.