unrealized movements
inside of one's own head–
quaking knees and twitching hands
sitting slouched and rocking

Spine starts to slide–
relief is but a brief afterthought
as the proper gesture arises
the soles are unearthed

Starting to move as if it can stand
Its inevitable move forward

Get up, time to go

If this poem ended up in an anthology,
that would be cool–
Then people would have to read this in school

The Sun is so hot
against my protected skin,
the heat is intense and I burn
from the overwhelming waves–
This, I am not made for.

I find the Sun beautiful
and on nicer days
I enjoy her gentile heat,
but the climate of today
had the Sun turn me red.

I curse the Sun
I reject the heat,
but if the sun was to leave,
then the darkness
would make me too cold.

The harbinger of death lives above my bed
holding the rumors of those once said
though every night I hear the screams
ones so sharp they pierce my dreams
I feel the comfort in her glowing eyes
and gripping my soul every time she flies
as soon as I lay my head to rest
she rids my room of unwanted guests
when the shadows invade the ending day
the harbinger of death shall find its prey