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A Nov 2018
"Do you believe in dreams?
In love and hope and happily ever afters?"
His eyes are intense.
"Do you believe in change?"
I shake my head for no.
He laughs.
"Me neither."
Part Two.
A Nov 2018
"You're nothing but cannon fodder,"
He sneers,
"You weren't made to love, sweetie.
You were made to ****.
To hurt.
To die.
And there is absolutely nothing that can change that."
Part One.
A Nov 2018
Sometimes I dream
Of secret, flitting things
That dance in my memory like dew on the grass
Dissolving in the sunny rays
That awaken me each morning.
A Nov 2018
I find myself
Waiting for the end
Begging it to come
The sticky sweet beginning
That drags its rotted body to the eyes of
the Sun and stars
And I
Cannot wait
For the cycles to close.
A Sep 2018
I glimpse above a
Cobalt chocolate sundown, you
Chasing violet.
A May 2018
Red is a sunset,
Warming the summer air.
It is fighting at all hours,
Spilled liquid on the ground.

Red is poppies spreading across a field,
Petals soft as a hand strokes them.

Orange is a leaf falling to the ground,
Pumpkins sitting on porches,
Children laughing, saying
Trick or Treat!

Orange is baking pies for a holiday,
And saying thank you when it's needed.

Yellow is the sun beating down,
Browning backs and helping growth,
Bouncy ***** in coin machines,
Highlighters marking up a page.

Yellow is sunflowers,
And a bow in a child's hair.

Green is leaves dappled with sunlight,
Smelling cut grass in the early morning,
Apples tossed into the air,
Grasshoppers jumping when a shadow passes.

Green is the ding as the cashier hands change,
Receipts rolling out, tearable paper.

Blue is a thunderous wave,
Crashing against a pale shore,
Wearing at stone and land,
Seeping through the cracks.

Blue is a pen signing a piece of parchment,  
A snowflake touching an uncovered nose.

Purple is amethyst in a crown,  
The rustle of a cape against the floor,  
A gilded throne in a stone room,  
Jewels weighing down a smooth collarbone.  

Purple is a rosary clasped in fingers,  
An old's man's words as they touch the air and fall.  

Black is eyes that come from fiery depths,  
An aristocrat's smile,  
Empty rooms of an abandoned home,  
Tears falling on a wooden floor.  

Black is a scythe held in skeletal fingers,  
A scepter held beside a throne.

Grey is pressing keys and forming words,  
Clouds coming in from a dark sky,  
A belt worn in a triangle,  
Eyes that hold only one emotion.  

Grey is a pencil's lead snapping on paper,  
Drawn rain with no umbrella.
This is essentially what I'd say if someone asked me to describe colors.
A May 2018
People talk about Tornado Alley,

The part of the U.S where I live.
They act like tornadoes touch down every week in May through October,
Like storms go through every other week.
Like everyone’s not scared and they’re always calm.

The truth is,
Tornado Alley’s not like that.

Tornado Alley is worrying
When a tornado touches down only five miles from your house,
Your family’s in the basement,
Wondering if everything’s all right,
And if your house will be damaged.

Tornado Alley is praying a storm will pass,
The ever-looming threat of a supercell,
Swirling clouds above your roof,
The sky a nasty green and purple.

Tornado Alley is taking everything you have for granted,
Then being scared when it’s threatened.

Tornado Alley is knowing tornadoes exist,
But being thankful that you’re not in San Francisco,
Or Hawaii, Florida, the coasts.

Tornado Alley is flat plains and wide open spaces,
Not being afraid of a storm,
But of what lurks when the beginning is over.
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