I am the weeds growing between the cracks in the concrete.
A beautiful marigold, reminding others of sunshine
But I am still deadly, filled with bitter dandelion milk.

                                       No matter how pretty.
                                                  I am still,
                                                      Just
                                                        A
                                                    ****.

I killed your hopes and dreams
but... How?
I am the very thing that makes them come true.
I fly peoples wishes in the wind.

                                     No matter how magical.
                                                  I am still,
                                                     Just
                                                       A
                                                    ****.

I come back after every **** spray that decays me down to a black, ashy, flower imprint on the sidewalk.
I sprout back with more sunny flowers and more wish seeds.
I have rooted myself.

                                     No matter what you do
                                               I will always
                                                     Grow.
                        
                                 Your honey-colored nightmare.

We're sand, you know
Slipping through splayed fingers
Our hearts,
Are but ash filled bubbles
Carried upon the lilac,
rough winds of May
Blown by peach faced children
Sensitive to the human touch
Grasped too hard,
And a poets heart
Will burst
Should we fall,
As we so often do
We can't be caught
Promiscuous in our words
Faithful, in our dreams
We,
Ash filled bubbles
Eternally in May and lilac~A

it reads and feels nothing. a reminder’s footnote.

memory forgets its hermit father

& painters
go bald.

a mother says little.

each cigarette
has its own
language, this match

the pen
of the afterlife.

give prognosis its non-crying baby.

Sunday I met you
and now it's Thursday
haven't left your bed
since

Spring weather so riotous
and erratic
love so dangerous it breaks
hearts and bedsprings
bent blankets and electric
tingles hands scraping
each other's bodies

when i was little
i wanted to be a ballerina,
now i just want to be able
to get up in the morning

And you stroked my hair,
rested your head on my shoulder
and said:
"you make me feel
like I'm dancing on clouds,
and somehow,
I'm not falling.
But I'm afraid to,
God am I afraid to."