Heaven rained on me,
I breathed in the petrichor,
Bathed in the downpour.

i believe,
even the stars
get tired.

when the night sky
had folded them away
back into the darkness

and the moon,
that lonesome thing,
has doused itself in shadows.

so will you too, my friend
shy away from the light
as if it would burn
if it reached you.

maybe you feel,
you just are not strong enough
to face the day.

that the midnight hour
is a broken thing

and oh, the silence
is deafening.

and you and i know, even the stars
are tired.

you mourn for them
as their light expires.

She keeps songs
locked away in boxes
like secrets.
She will take them out
like postcards
to help her remember
the feeling of
a different time,
a different person
by her side.
She likes the one
that makes her
eyes close
to see the lights.
She smiles at
the one that  
makes her stand
up on tiptoes,
the one that
helps her forget
she doesn’t know
what to do
with her hands.

The tune
will carry her.

Like it did
the times when
voices broke
like a heart.
When instruments’ strings
would snap
and hurt.

A waste of space
moves from place to place
with a shameless haste
and a graceless face.
All the space that's wasted
cut and pasted
freedom encased
though briefly tasted.
Laid to waste
that wasted space
limbs were taped
and there defaced;
the sign said "Waste"
to home we raced
at a frenetic pace
footprints traced.
The edge of space
where fruit met waste -
a confusing place
reeks of **** and fine lace.
A waste of space
wearing my face
lost the race
to the black dog's pace.
But just in case
here's a place that
cannot be wasted:
bed frame's embrace.

In the middle of a crowded room,
full of bad mouths with good hearts,
I ask:

"What's the point of a trigger warning if you're just gonna pull it anyway?"

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