spring rises like the lazy morning sun
reaching with warm fingers to chase away the harsh cold
of a chilly winter frost, hard and dead.
the wind dances in it’s own rhythmic motion
and it carries the smell of cherry trees, scrapped knees,
helicopter seeds and memories better buried beneath
an aging oak tree.
i hope it blows hard enough to tear us all away.
and i hurt,
and i hurt,
and i hurt you.
the rain lingers in a light drizzle,
friendly and curious, but calming in it’s own way
it hits the window in hello, shining with a thousand
different reflections of who we were, and i follow the path
with a gentle finger, remembering a time when i had once
been so sure what i was walking towards, what we all
stood for, the dreams and pacts we made in that tiny
wooden fort and i—
i hope it rains so hard we all drown.
and i hurt,
and i hurt,
and i hurt you.
the grass is alive and breathing
it speaks a language of its own, made of
chirping crickets, talkative cicadas, and crawling weeds
ants build communities beneath the trees, bees hover over
flowers responsibly, the frogs under the porch reawaken
to a song of reeds beating gently against blooming leaves,
like our band of plastic drums and broken guitar strings.
the ground is still dry enough to catch fire instantaneously
i hope it burns everything to the ground.
and i hurt,
and i hurt,
and i hurt you.
the air is heavy and oppressive
the silence is cut by sirens and the distance recollection
of children lying, there is arguing and fighting
but the wind is done dying, the rain will not stop crying
as the thunder is trying to scream louder than everyone else.
somewhere a cellar door is closed, not on it’s own
lighting strikes an aging oak tree and wooden
foundations moan in creeks and groans as leaves
and branches whip and crack, like the sound of a raging fire
engulfing memories and consuming bones.
i hope,
and i hurt,
and i hurt.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 1:00 AM UTC
spring rises like the lazy morning sun
reaching with warm fingers to chase away the harsh cold
of a chilly winter frost, hard and dead.
the wind dances in it’s own rhythmic motion
and it carries the smell of cherry trees, scrapped knees,
helicopter seeds and memories better buried beneath
an aging oak tree.
i hope it blows hard enough to tear us all away.
and i hurt,
and i hurt,
and i hurt you.
the rain lingers in a light drizzle,
friendly and curious, but calming in it’s own way
it hits the window in hello, shining with a thousand
different reflections of who we were, and i follow the path
with a gentle finger, remembering a time when i had once
been so sure what i was walking towards, what we all
stood for, the dreams and pacts we made in that tiny
wooden fort and i—
i hope it rains so hard we all drown.
and i hurt,
and i hurt,
and i hurt you.
the grass is alive and breathing
it speaks a language of its own, made of
chirping crickets, talkative cicadas, and crawling weeds
ants build communities beneath the trees, bees hover over
flowers responsibly, the frogs under the porch reawaken
to a song of reeds beating gently against blooming leaves,
like our band of plastic drums and broken guitar strings.
the ground is still dry enough to catch fire instantaneously
i hope it burns everything to the ground.
and i hurt,
and i hurt,
and i hurt you.
the air is heavy and oppressive
the silence is cut by sirens and the distance recollection
of children lying, there is arguing and fighting
but the wind is done dying, the rain will not stop crying
as the thunder is trying to scream louder than everyone else.
somewhere a cellar door is closed, not on it’s own
lighting strikes an aging oak tree and wooden
foundations moan in creeks and groans as leaves
and branches whip and crack, like the sound of a raging fire
engulfing memories and consuming bones.
i hope,
and i hurt,
and i hurt.
it's been an awful day. also i hate spring.
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