A man changes his wall paper.
Shortly afterwards, winter comes to an end.
He says to himself that he has changed the seasons with a single
                                                                                    deliberate action.

The seasons begin to change,
So slowly as they always have.
Midway, a man finally feels it-
He changes his wall paper.

The seasons say nothing.
Because the seasons do not feel.

Because they are felt.

After some time, there are no words spoken
only an awakening in the silence
of a blue light dawn, a moment
where stars linger on
a portal is found
where the soul
lives on
and on

It was summer and you weren't smoking anymore. You still bit your nails when in stress but at least that doesn't **** you.
My mom said she didn't like you because you smoked and you played in a band, she said you'd break my heart.
I've always been a goodie-two-shoes and I told you I didn't want to disappoint her, and then you asked me if I wasn't disappointing myself.
I told you I couldn't see you because a lighter was always in your pocket and your sweaters always smelled like smoke and your palms were callused and your voicewas awfully musical.
You said you'd give up on anything for me but I told you that if I let you, then I'd be really disappointed in myself, before I left.
I've never cried as much as that night, and I didn't see you for months and then I realized my mother was right, you did break my heart, but only because I made you drop it.
Now its too late for anything and I guess I'll never know how your mouth tastes without the tobacco lingering.

**** it.
poetry isn't for you,
it isn't for anyone.
why show the world
your wounds?
keep it all wrapped up
under a knit blanket, i suppose.
fight your demons alone;
a war in your own mind.
don't let anyone see
the scars, not on your wrist,
but in your thoughts.
stay silent, stay quiet.
maybe you'll get through it.
hide it inside, hidden
by fake smiles and fake friends.
move on with your music
and a whole new reality.
the world is a dangerous place;
people don't understand
and people don't know.
don't show your marks,
pull down your sleeves.

no,
poetry isn't for anyone.

I can only imagine what it feels like to be loved by you.
What your lips feel like pressed against mine.
To feel my hand intertwined with yours,
When our eyes meet,  
And my heart stops,
Until next time, *my love