not the sky,
not today.

today the sky's
an ashy grey.

blue, right now,
is how i feel.

under the dreary
sky of steel.

i feel like the weight of my world
is on my shoulders,
a self-inflicted
Atlas curse.

my actions
are coming back
to knock me down
and crush my resolve.

i'm so close.

so close to getting everything fixed.

and i push the boulder
up the hill as Sisyphus did.

but every time i near the zenith,
i make one small misstep,
and everything slips from my hands,
rolling me flat again.

mere assignments
feel like labours of Hercules,
impossible trials,
with the intent of divine punishment.

if i slay the Hydra,
will i pass english class?

late at night
i lie awake
resting in your tender embrace.

you hold me tight,
your warmth
providing silent consolation.

you're a great guy,
a little broken,
but that doesn't make me care
for you any less.

i'm fixated on you,
bringing you
into every possible aspect
of my life.

you distract me,
fill my thoughts,
hold my mind in your hands.

i would be your boy,
give you all my heart has to give,
and be there for you,
like you're there for me.

if only you were real.

delicate moths wish
to kiss
  your oxygen-eating fingers,
   as you gently consume
    sun-dried limbs
     of monster-trees.

     your dear children,
    born of the plant flesh
  you disintegrate,
dance on the whistling breeze.

should one of your young
  dare to tiptoe
   on brittle blades
    of winter-deceased grass,
     she will grow
      more impressively
       than you,
        her mother.

    she will indulge
   in tender gluttony,
  softly swallowing whole
the homes
of woodland denizens.

conceived of woodpecker houses,
  her own daughters
   enter the world,
    spread their mother's warmth,
     just as your sweet baby
      did with yours.

and forever you burn.

from ambiguity is insight born.
minds, both clever and not,
all conceive many a thought.

in attempt to interpret,
ideas are set into motion,
building a creative notion.

through presence of equivocation,
wit is given liberty

how i look to you,
my Sun.
but your light
has blinded me.

i did not see the radiation,
the sunburn,
the slow peel
of my skin from my bones.

i only saw life.
i only saw warmth.

you scorched my retinas

so I could not see

the damage you caused.

bold and creative.

warm, nostalgic sunrises.

sweet fruits, they're ripe on a tree.

no rhyme, save for a botanical term
almost no one knows.

rare favorite colour,
but deserving all the same.

guillotine of dried tree pulp,
with eloquent insults adorned,
beheading reputations one by one,
in a single sharp-written bite.

when the pen-wielding executioner drops the rope,

even the mighty end in baskets

at the hand of paper blades.

She's just like a rose,
with beauty that pales all others.
Her name, everyone knows,
Her praise, everyone utters.

with beauty that pales all others,
thorns hidden under the leaves.
Her praise, everyone utters,
a danger no one perceives.

thorns hidden under the leaves,
Her influence only spreads.
a danger no one perceives,
filling everyone's heads.

Her influence only spreads,
she waits like a beast in repose.
filling everyone’s heads,
she’s just like a rose.

storm rages without,
woman rages within.

no meteorologist,
no man,
could have seen it coming,

blind to the greying clouds,
senseless to the burning-wire scent
of building fury.

it seems all blue-sky beauty,
a bearing akin
to cumulous tufts of vapour.

she is sunny and bright,
until fluffy clouds are ripped open
with shouting thunder and lightning strikes.

then man-meteorologist
is blind to the storm
no more.

you are a stranger,
my vessel.

i see you,
stranger,
in the mirror.

and i am another,
taken up residence
in your psyche.

stranger of mine,
i stir in your skull.

to be, or not to be.
the question that plagued the noble Hamlet,
so plagues me now.
I care not for the for the art
with which he speaks,
yet his core idea rings true.
laying myself to rest,
sleeping,
perchance to dream.
and in that dream of death,
i might escape the nightmare of life.
this seems the favourable route.
but...
"seeming" is the key.
is it merely a shining illusion,
this relief?
for in the passing of life
by one's own hand,
he only passes his griefs
to loved ones.
is my relief
worth the pain
it would cause?

freckle-speckle face,
marks like delicate lightning
on stomach and thighs,
soft form like Aphrodite.

broad, sturdy bones
wrapped in imperfection.
with flaws like gems,
you shine the brightest.

my heart is tucked away
under the floorboards
in the back of your brain.

out of sight,
out of mind.

because you couldn't look me in the eye.

but i still haunt you,
don't i?

do you hear me?
does the sound of me
remind you?
does the guilt follow you?

am I driving you insane?
do i make you want to scream?

are you going to confess your sin?

will you tell anyone of the crime
you know you committed?

is my heart beating loud enough
for you to peel back the floorboards once more,
and find the pieces of me,
torn apart by you?

it's roses against a twilight sky,
and the exchange of sweet nothings.

or,
floating embers burning,
children of a dancing flame.

maybe,
it's velvet cake topped with cream-cheese icing,
baked special for a loved one.

could be,
sweet strawberries ripe on the vine,
ready for picking.

possibly,
it's a summer sunset,
scattered with cotton-candy clouds.

whatever red is,
it's my colour.