the black goes on and on
and it sort of looks infinite
like the universe's never ending path
smooth and simple
all i can focus on is the black
and how straight it is
which makes me feel a little worse
it is too straight
begging to be moved
to be swayed and destroyed
mom's hands are moving next to mine
and voices shrill around me
i am 17
and learning to drive
and the black is all i see
there is tension in my fingers
and impatience in my bones
i feel fine
i am okay
but there is a truck besides me
and a tree to my left
all i want to do
is run into them
it is a casual thought dancing in my brain
as if i'm deciding whether or not to do something trivial
i feel 17 right now
but my body shrinks like a little girl's
and my soul feels an odd peace at the thought of the truck
as if i am 96, and ready to leave
maybe i am all of the above
i can't tell anymore
but i keep my eyes on the road
and the black,
goes on and on
you will know that words are never just words.
somehow their soft syllables and delicate curves are storms
you never expect,
you're never prepared for.
you understand that silence is sometimes the most tragic thing of all
and other times frightening enough to make you shake and shiver
but often, beautiful.
you're familiar with the routine of it all
the 3 am cups of tea and scattered papers
smudged ink and tired kisses
the lost concept of time.
most of all
if you've ever loved a writer
you know a little something
The sky seems to yawn a bit herself,
the fading blue of her soul hinting at a new day
one she is not ready for.
Outside the moon is slipping away
saying goodbye to the 6 am blanket he hides behind
one he often finds comfort in.
It is a March morning yet snow decorates the trees,
time has all but been destroyed
and the sadness of winter has become a guest overstaying their visit.
Branches slink with the fatigue of an exhausted patient,
and the birds songs are tinged with melancholy tunes
ones they are growing used to.
Every March morning the sky seems to take a deep breath
whispering out to the plants and deer,
I'm still here
Every March evening, the moon gets a bit shyer
knowing it's time to go,
but desperate to stay, a soul so dire.
The sky seems to yawn a lot lately
her restless body struggling to exist for time
time she does not have.
i have often found february to be
the saddest month.
always lagging a bit behind everyone else
with its evenings more somber,
days slightly softer.
february mornings linger on
with echoes of loneliness
and promises of sorrow,
and its nights are the same
with whispers of nostalgia
and the sky releasing sighs.
february snow is slower than december's
and icier than january's
it feels the weight of closure and impatience
as the environment desperately awaits warmth.
february has always been the saddest month,
and how could it not be?
it always comes second,
and is only met with excitement for its passing.
february is bad news and heartbreak,
and sinking souls.
i have often found february to be
a bit like me.
we argued a lot about colors
the violets under my eyes gave you anxiety
the red on your hands made me scared
even our home was set up for sadness.
blue, blue, blue
the paint on the walls was chipping
the house was old and dusty
but all i saw was blue, blue, blue
the blue was soft and springlike in my eyes
with cracks telling stories
and dust holding histories secrets
all i saw was goodness.
there was a lingering emptiness in the air
dragging on with the silence of past dreams
all you saw was grey, grey, grey.
the grey was pathetic and sad to you
the weight of loneliness was suffocating
and the creaky floorboards were burdening
all you saw was abandonment
maybe our different colors should have
meant something more to me
maybe my blue wasn't good enough
not good enough to cover the cracks
maybe your grey's should have
told me something
maybe your grey was solid
steady, not wanting any touch ups
maybe you saw blue, blue, blue
a bright sky, when you left-
because all I saw was grey, grey, grey
when the house fell apart
and we went with it.
the name of this curse bestowed upon me
the one that tips the meter
too far this way
too far that way
and never in my favor.
the reasoning behind those crumpled up suicide notes
and those rotting unsent love letters on my desk
the ones that sing of death every time pain arrives
and the ones that scream at me of love
whenever he smiles
about what i did to have it this way
where my heart is never at ease
unless being completely destroyed
or totally attached
and never content with the middle.
tell me the cure to this illness
of always loving others too strongly
and never loving myself enough
the one thats burning my lungs
and sabotaging my nervous system
it'll be okay
I am carrying a broken soul within an already fragile body
and have become a glass on the edge of a table.
My bones are breaking and aching,
my eyes are decorated with tragic blue circles
holding the depth of the ocean and the fatigue of God.
My cheeks are sinking like a weak ship
and I feel like the skeleton in my old biology classroom.
I am a "Warning: Proceed with Caution" sign,
possessing the angst of a 90's teen and the weariness of Caesar.
I can no longer romanticize my sadness, its burden is too big for beauty. Everyone around me is a masterpiece
and I am the drops of paint fallen on a smock,
I am a drop of water and
everyone else is a sea of their own.
I can no longer hope for bandaids or pills,
i am what i've become