The seasons send their ruin as they go,
For in the spring the narciss shows its head
Nor withers till the rose has flamed to red,
And in the autumn purple violets blow,
And the slim crocus stirs the winter snow;
Wherefore yon leafless trees will bloom again
And this grey land grow green with summer rain
And send up cowslips for some boy to mow.

But what of life whose bitter hungry sea
Flows at our heels, and gloom of sunless night
Covers the days which never more return?
Ambition, love and all the thoughts that burn
We lose too soon, and only find delight
In withered husks of some dead memory.

Months have I waited
For a particular celebration
Not of getting drunk nor even wasted
Just a quiet simple sweet vacation
Need not have to go far
It could just end up to be here
We could get in a car
Fully automated no gears
This life's is ours
Never was theirs
Now that then I know
Little could I ease my ears
To take a minute from my conscience
Allowing my minds to weight in options
A simple easy minor equations
Could be the one that set my final decision

Well here I am
once again.
Sitting here at 3 A.M.
And there's no escape
to the way I feel.
No escape to the way
you made me feel.
You haunt me
in every possible way.

I am not writing to you about  how my love for you burns deep like a river
Or how I lay awake at night unable to shake the dream of us staring at the stars
Whispering our untold love expressed as wishes
And taking form of the dizzy lights in our eyes
Pushing
Pushing
Pushing
Till the words
"I love you" finally slip out
I am not writing to you about how I can only see you with hearts surrounding your ever glorified presence
And I couldn't be writing about The way my knees start shaking
My heart starts racing
And my hands can't be still when I'm around you
Unless
Maybe you feel this way too?

Sometimes your hands will become anchors and you will try to move and the ground will thank you for keeping still. And you will only notice this because suddenly you'll ask yourself," doesn't the ground feel lonely?"
And the people will spit on the deeply- tarred -equator -feeling bubblegum laced ground. And the people drag their obese- nicotine savaged-righteous feet upon the surface and allow their children to pick at it, mimicking their itchy adolescent nostrils.
The ground, we never realised is a playground for lovers backs and the collector of the suicidal's blood from every 27th floor. But mostly it connects us all.
This is noted from the thoughts of a 17 year old girl who wants to thank the ground for being grey and sometimes brown or green and wants to be forgiven for being the next shade of red on it's beauty.

In gentle hands,
rising over waves of wind
to lands anew
we fly. And from so high
we are as small
as frost on the windowsill.

but you look at her
as if you just found
your new favorite thing
in the whole world
(i look at you like that too)