there is something about the way the trees dance in the wind and how that exact same breeze grazes your skin, makes you shiver, causing you to crawl under your blankets to warm you at night and to shield you from everything bad. there is something miraculously wonderful and beautiful about that. you listen to your favourite bands but they can't seem to explain why this is happening, and yet we are all just stars in a galaxy and once the light dies out no one will flinch except the hearts that we have touched the most and i guess thats why hearts will oddly skip a beat at 4am on a saturday morning. lungs will die out; skin deteriorating but thats okay because i'm sure there is something beyond what our eyes can see. like when people make bucket lists when really they are subliminally planning out near-by life goals. and unfinished novel is processed so you can pick up the pen one day and write again. write until your hand starts bleeding, your heart stops beating. funny how people always complain about the noises cars create and they never stop to hear the sound of trees, brushing leaf against leaf in a summer breeze. there is nothing poetic about a messy room although i wish it could be- i would use it as a metaphor to show that my life is changing slowly. new rims on cars, new boys, new city lights to gaze upon, 12 am walks by yourself with lonely cigarettes and empty words lost in a fire raging society of *** and abuse but i can't seem to put my finger on who. fake tattoos and dark purple bruises. quiet nights yet you feel like the walls caving in. extreme voices in your head. disorders are not poetic but if it brings true awareness i hope one day it will be. do not mask your scars, instead count them. eventually you will die and old soul and smiling child and your stars the remain will continue to shine on for you.

-next i will count the planets

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