how cruel it is,
to see beauty, but not make it.
It's like looking in the mirror and only
sadly seeing cracked teeth and matted hair.
I guess it's the days I falter and don't pay attention
to the things around me I fall the hardest,
and leave the biggest trails of aggression and
sadness in my waking despair. If only I could trace my fingers
across it, like the model cars on my grandpa's shelf, I could wipe the dust from the window and see the meticulously callous
bright colors peeking out of the evening; hoping to string
together the proverbial tie of the clouds to the blue, awfully blue
sky. It seems a decade has passed since I've seen it. and I fear I have
nowhere left to go, nowhere left to turn to paint out my thoughts. I
miss it all.
but no worth is it to fret,
even red and white clouds
flicker away to someplace better,
more serene or calming.
Like crowd surfing the
line between life and death.
Leaning one way for too long will result in your fall, but at the in-between, where does life start? Where does death begin?
Could the clouds tell us, warn us of it?
Do they feel me slipping through the crowd and sinking into
the cold dirt?
Maybe it's better here, the world is certainly colder when you dare to dream.