chlorine is toxic
hindsight is 20/20,
but i never should have kissed you

For the blackest black are my days
grey clouds forever looms and winds continues to knock through the windows
and for the days I feel joy
a sunlight peaks through the dark, ominous clouds
but it was fleeting and the storm cloud remains unmoving
fog continues to surrounds the house
surreal it was
the hazel is forever in trance of the freedom from afar

As the solution cools
the molecules slow their stochastic dance
and the liquid is less able
to keep the substance dissolved.

As a threshold is crossed
the power of solution fails
and atom by atom
molecule by molecule
the substance crystallizes
plane by plane
layer by layer
the form of the substance
gives rise to a growing crystal
revealing in its structure
the nature of itself.

I wish I was happy, but it feels so far, 
A light out of reach, like a distant star. 
Is it too much to ask, to find peace in this race, 
When I’m lost in the crowd, seeking my own place?

I want to be different, to stand apart, 
With dreams that burn fierce in the depths of my heart. 
Yet the world spins around, with a ceaseless hum, 
And I wonder if my time will ever come.

I see myself rising, at the top of it all, 
Where the doubts and the whispers no longer call. 
But happiness feels like a fleeting embrace— 
I chase it, but it slips, like wind in a chase.

Still, I dream in the silence, in the calm of the night, 
That one day I'll shine in my own perfect light.

It’s November
And everything I feel within
Is what I see around,
The coalescing fog,
The turbidity of clouds,
Coldness enveloping itself again,
Before the trees; wilting leaves bow,
As I stand there, I feel understood,
It’s November,
Hence I am not alone
in the woods

Ink,
flavor that still tempts me
color green,
and black,
red,
but there is no white
like there is no black note
two flavors we cannot see
to make a better world
circle,
a triangle,
squares,
but we cannot see them
drawn in pen
words in ink will be
tomorrow?

she casts her pencil like a wand as magic soaks into the page her flannel cascades around her work, shielding it from curious eyes she tilts her head to listen to the lecture, but her heart is elsewhere running through castles and stumbling through candle lit streets colors tangle to mirror the expanse of her dreams she shares her soul with every meticulous stroke each face blessed by her style but never the same when she designs she never aims for perfection for she knows perfect is just a fancy way of saying flawed she erases and redraws as if her art could never satisfy her desires it can always be better but it is never good enough if only she knew I meant it when I told her I loved her drawing her art speaks to me like Mona Lisa never could