There is gold in them hills, he says
Gazing whistfully at her peaks and valleys
So he's going digging
Chipping happily away at each new glittering curve he discovers
She watched on in giggling, sunlight type wonder
Curious if he shall ever be satisfied
For he was of a thirsty nature
One for white lightening
Another for the metallic shine
Of her lace-edged divine

"My life has been the poem I would have writ"
But I could not both live and utter it.
The words- of Henry David Thoreau
echo in the woods outside my childhood home
but I can see a younger me with rolled up sleeves
diligently grinding graphite against loose-leaf,
I watch as he tries to capture snippets of life  
like fireflies in mason jars on summer nights.
He squandered the sands of the hour glass,
recluse in his room obsessing over a moments pass
but has he not breathed life into soon forgotten memories,
striking alive these Frankenstein ideas with electricity?

the world is dull
the colors less vibrant
until all i can see is gray
and black and white;
i'm struggling to hold onto
the last bit of blue
because i know i won't see
it again for months;
my skin is red everywhere
except the faint pink lines
that are scattered on my body
but please don't try to help me
i like it this way.
the only yellow i see is
the dead flowers next to where
the two halves of my heart lay;
i know i shouldn't cry
but i'm scared of the dark
i just want to be where you are
where all the colors are