—Brook and road
Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy Pass,
And with them did we journey several hours
At a slow step. The immeasurable height
Of woods decaying, never to be decayed,
The stationary blasts of waterfalls,
And in the narrow rent, at every turn,
Winds thwarting winds bewildered and forlorn,
The torrents shooting from the clear blue sky,
The rocks that muttered close upon our ears,
Black drizzling crags that spake by the wayside
As if a voice were in them, the sick sight
And giddy prospect of the raving stream,
The unfettered clouds and region of the heavens,
Tumult and peace, the darkness and the light—
Were all like workings of one mind, the features
Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree,
Characters of the great Apocalypse,
The types and symbols of Eternity,
Of first and last, and midst, and without end.

Perfectionism is deadly when it's believable:
A plant with infinite roots in my brain
As if my entire existence sprouted from that
Seed so evil that my very veins
Pump pride and pretensions through me
Pulsing, rising, filling me to the brim
With false dreams and glimmering hope
That feel hellishly hollow within.

and it drifts out in sunsets
from throbbing eyeballs
locked on horizons,
thinking staring
following that double-frame
earthquake spasm
cut to black and blacker
behind the skull

every sooften, a day will wash over     leaving me
a little paler, a little thin ner

for the most part I crush it like a can and bury it in my chest,
pretend it's a necklace, wear a face to match
I'll take breaths so deep, but my chest won't move
up    or down, some days

I cut it into pieces, dangle it from the ceiling and watch it glint in the  
sunlight, some days

I pull it over my head like a blanket, and keep the dayshine
at bay, leave my limbs pale a little longer

somedays
it's almost a comfort

some days, It's almost as if
I breathe it as it
breathes me and

the wind we create together carries us
in it's length across
the valleys of our        
small universe

Fall is less beautiful at night

When the wind is blowing and you've forgotten your jacket and there isn't enough sunlight to illuminate the colour of the leaves and finally you see the season for what it really is
A season of death.

But we try not to think about it too much.

We are the crack pipe babies,
the suburban rats that lay in fields at 2 am.
We are the children of the night,
We smoke till we can't feel the chill of October anymore.
(we smoke till we can't feel the chill of anything anymore)
We are the boys and girls with holes in our gloves and rips in our boots and parents that swear to love us for the beautiful colours we have grown into to.
But they are colours of dried blood, and rust on metal and stained teeth.
They are the red and brown and yellow of autumn leaves.

We are the Fall.
But Fall is so much less beautiful at night.

all the magic mushrooms and popped pills
all the heart-racing clubs, and sunsets,
laying on dew, high,
seeking out foreign planets.
never amounts to anything.
for any substance
or celestial body
trying to satisfy my soul,
couldn't bring me closer to you.