As all good things must tumble down
turned up against the tide-
The same is true of you and I
My friend-please, do oblige.

These days-I take-to travel far
And through and through I shall.
With winters bite upon my heel
Left with me-no morale.

And as the days began to thaw
-With flowers bursting blue-
I'd see myself in all the shades,
of each and every hue.

Good day, my love; how could it not be?
I've got you and love and everything
else that could possibly be in between.

For without you, my dear, I'd likely be bare-
A cliché with no subject:
No leaves to be spared.
.........................................................­.................................................................­..

You've speared me straight through, impaled one might say, and that makes it quite difficult to get far away. A fine sharp knife, that tool you named love, now tear me apart from below and above.
Because there isn't much left; time and all, but you'll pay for this theft no matter how small.

For with you, my dear, I live truly in fear-
A deer in the headlights of a fast moving car
Clichés abound everywhere-no matter how far.

I sit here and write
in a room too dark, not white.
Minus love and minus quite
-a lot of (other) things-

I built this chair I sit in
in this room too dark, not white.
A place I've never been in,
-and that is not alright-

I built the desk too.
Mahogany wood and burnt tears;
A brew of epic proportions. It's true.
-and you, I fear, are soon to disappear-

Anxiety in my extremities
a familiar ringing in my ears,
I just wish it would all freeze.
-But that certainly won't stop these tears-

And I doubt much of anything will-
or would

These poems I write
are trash & trite.
Filled with some things
I thought you'd like.

And so, I stand
on a thin band
of worn-out land
that I thought grande.

Alas, my knees shook
and without a great hook,
I found myself falling
straight into a book,

but my book was not fantasy.
& as such, I could not fly. But
my thin band of worn land, so grand,
was all that stood between me &:

My bestest friend, the ampersand.

What kind of friends
slip right through your hands?
I'm drinking bottled love now-
Leftovers from
a time long past.

I've learned to love the taste of it-
dripping down my throat
~and burning through my bones~
Eyes like rivers, and
dream-like shivers.

But she told me:
"If they really wanted to see you-"
I cut her off.
Limbless and Lost
I trudge aimlessly through time.

An end to anger.
Call me jaded
but I don’t think
that’s possible,
though I’ve been wrong-

before-I could have
told you the difference
between happy and
existing. Now,
I’m not so-

sure-Enough, is enough.
Call me emerald,
‘cuz I’m still green,
but not quite right:
Like an off-

White-Tee, by Lil
Peep is a great
Song. I think
you might like it,
kinda like I thought you might like-

me.

Sure, it smells like cat ****,
But it’s not really the process
That matters.

It’s the end result,
The final product,
That matters.

It isn’t so much the hair itself either;
Rather the person the hair grows on,
That matters.

Maybe it is a coping mechanism,
But it’s better than a mental schism.