Until snow speckles the skies,
winter hides joy from colour-laden eyes.
There's no sparkle
from October to December,
as leaves lose their lustre,
as beaches become wastelands,
as sun-tanned skin fades to pale.

When stars finally fall to the earth as
flakes,
darkness is shaken away. Skin quivers
with the cold,
shivers growing more common and less discrete.
Little flecks of brilliance
reach down to the blinded,
returning vision to those
who hope only for a little bit of colour.
The first one to touch your nose,
having
come from the heavens,
describes more colourful times.

"Patience," it whispers.

I've spent hours, days
wrestling with grief. I've watched
as it gnawed at flesh, taking
pieces of all of us... as if we never needed to be whole. It
doesn't care what you've
been through, what you've done. If you
let it, grief will nibble every inch
until there's nothing left.

It creeps through everything I do
now, nibbling. I see it there,
taking from me
what I never knew I had. No,
mine is no different,
but I refuse. It will not
define me. Grief can feed
all it wants, but my
patience
makes it mute.

Light is a funny thing.
In abundance, it
blinds.
In lacking, it
blinds.
Sometimes the right light seems to fade,
evading those who need it most. Sometimes
just enough shows through an
overturned car,
reflecting off the shards of glass,
showing those with aching bodies
what they need to see.
Sometimes light
is wrong,  but
who's to
say?

I reach
for colourful images, while trying not
to sound pretentious. Often, I fail
but that's alright.
I hate that poetry
has to be searched for, and
is not understood by the masses. I want to write for people, and not just those who took a creative writing elective, or those
that went to high-profile schools. I want to write
so that people have something to read,
to inspire others to create. Art is only for those that can afford the time,
and it seems to me that
there's plenty
to go
Around.

Sometimes I feel like a shadow, merely
flowing through the background,
affected by light and dark and not
really
changing anything.
Sometimes I feel like a
supporting actor,
unimportant
though I'm writing the script.
Sometimes I pretend to believe
in something greater,
just to make the day pass
with a little less friction.
Sometimes I write sad poems
about things I don't really believe
just to pass the time between classes.

I start with a single idea,
smoldering sweetly like a single
piece of coal.
If I leave it unattended,
too much time and moisture will combine
to cool the sweet heat
of creation.
If I write before it's ready,
time again becomes a factor.
A hot coal needs time,
the unwise smother an otherwise fine fire
with sticks and leaves and logs.
Some are attracted to the
bright sheen of gasoline,
but all I see is a brilliant facade
that fades within seconds.
It burns too hot,
the heat isn't appreciated
and the living leave for darkness.
A good poem, like a good fire,
needs time and tact to survive.
It needs to be nurtured, worked
and tinkered with. A good poem
needs varying heats, complimentary conditions
to grow.
It needs time to breathe, room to
become a bonfire or a forest
fire. Either way,
I try to bring the bright heat
from the warm coal of creation.