Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
the trees swaying towards the direction
locals say "yankees" descend from.
Like yankees, I too hail from the North.
Where trees can do a similar dance
to its sisters in the South.

They are not black-eyed Susans,
but these wildflowers are just fine.
And here, I have an abundance of time to observe the wildflowers and find them greater than such
as a day down here is three up there.
Yet even with a generous sun,
a myopic perception seems to allow me to do otherwise.

How come I find myself displeased to hear that the tune of the oriole has been replaced by a red bird?
Or that I am fatigued from running over endless hilltops instead of straight into the horizon?
This overwhelming amount of green is immaterial to the prodigious beds of sunflower yellow I once explored in.
Perhaps I need to do something about this myopia.

Higher elevations do make it harder to breathe
for I am a creature accustomed to salt air filling its lungs.
But just before my lungs give out
and my breathe gone with the breeze of the trees,
I am reassured by my kind company of the mountains
that I am right where I need to be.
I have left this marbled host of the future's tired, brilliant minds at a quarter to four in the morning.
I am still and bewitched from the latest spell of writer's mania. I have reached the highest point of the neighboring smokies.
It's advised that when descending from a hike, one should proceed with caution in order to avoid straining.
So I slowly observe the surroundings I have detached myself from for the past couple of hours. I line my psyche in a goldenrod shade of velvet.
Simultaneously comforted and stimulated.
The observational sky is inky, like the residue resting in between the lines on my finger tips.
The person striding next to me and I have made the conscious decision to enjoy the silence.
We step in unison, their gaze wanders, but their intent is fixed on the destination.
Uncalled for precipitation is falling in a quixotic manner. It is now three minutes past four and there are cardinals chirping.
I bid my companion from this stroll a goodnight. As the elevator closes they earnestly compliment the magnitude of my pupils.
I had been complaining about sleepless nights, but now I am being tucked into bed by the nocturnal kind's ways.
It is now twenty-seven minutes past four.
An uncanny 60 degree afternoon.
Light generously pours itself in through the bathroom window.
Smoke dances around her, as everything should. She takes a drag.
"I haven't done this in ages," she says, in a serene voice we haven't heard in ages.
"the smoke is prettier."
What was prettier was the Victorian structure that once stood by the window. She glances sentimentally at the sacred remains.
But now she has more room to breathe, now she has light.
An illuminated limb brings itself to a pair of carnation pink lips.
She takes another drag.
The stomach yearns for what it hasn't been given in the past 16 hours.
My skin clenches itself to my ribs, tightening to each bone with every breath.
Insouciance comes naturally this time of the year.
I am tempted to test the limbic system.
To insult the self-proclaimed existentialist in all black so they burn me with the end of their overpriced cigarette.
Please make sure the lights are still on.
The air only encourages lackadaisical behavior as it is frigid and apathetic towards its inhabitants.
But I locked eyes with a rosy-faced woman, wrapped up in hysterics and corduroy (I think navy blue).
And as suddenly as life had hit her with its realities,
I realized the air and I had nothing in common.
Nothing at all.
Eyes are haloed violet
and the shower water has been running black.
I've decided smoking is the antithesis of punk
and that Morrissey was right
meat IS ******.
How lovely it would be
to be light as 103,
and full of gaiety.
But innocence has died and cynicism is in bloom.
I am so beautiful.
I do not miss you.
I chip away at the painted walls-
clinical white.
They say the color is supposed to soothe, but I argue that notion.
A combination of cheap mascara and a restrained, yet highly impulsive, lacrimation reflex has dried itself over my eyelashes.
"steadfast, firm..." I tell myself that I am, like my father's mother.
Unwanted feelings rising through my throat I shove back down to my hollow gut.
An artform.
The raw pickings on my legs have become even more vibrant in color as my complexion has become increasingly transparent.
After all, that is what autumn is for.
I soothe the crimson marks by reminding them I am "independent, feral..." like my mother's mother.
My remedies for a nostalgic, peculiar time.
Necessary preparation for the **** winter.
The cumulonimbus clouds swim through the frontier of azure skies like a school of fish.
If I were an acid woman, this would be an ideal time & place.
Who needs drugs?
When the Sun itself is such.
Its rays beam upon me.
Instantly, I am elated and feel as though I could be a synchronized swimmer
amongst the elegant bodies of white.
Why have other devices for instant gratification?
We have the Sun.
Next page