Oh self, gardener of mistakes.
The trees I planted grew sideways,  giving shade only when I need it, never when I want.
Oh her, gardener of nervous hearts.
The tiny little buh-bump, buh-bumps of the night haunt my mind.
But they leave me thinking she's got countless petals and seeds trespassing in me.
And I am still learning if I should embrace them in the soil,
Or if I should dig them up before I get too attached.

Up in his attic, the astronomer observed both the heavens and the denizens. The celestial bodies overseeing both the miserable and the elated, without discrimination, nor with benevolence.

And the astronomer found that every night, he was not the only one observing the deep blue sea in the sky, admiring the bright jellyfish soaring slowly through the endless expanse. From hopeful young children to the sad war veteran, many people stared up at the night sky. The difference between him and them was that he studied the sky for a living, they studied it for life.

One night, the astronomer heard little whisps of a boy's hope. In that tiny yet significantly booming voice he asked, he pleaded, "Please cure my sadness". The astronomer looked down and in his yard was the malnourished looking boy. He couldn't have been no older than twelve but even so, he was wishing for happiness. They both admired the same star, away from the constellations, the smallest yet brightest. The most enduring, yet the least impressive. The perfect definition for a lucky star.

• \/\/\/ • \/\/\/ • \/\/\/ • \/\/\/

Down inside the dumpster, the boy hid. It smelled like what he thought the dead smelled like after several days of rotting without enough love. It was appropriate. The people who sent him out both declared him dead and unlovable.

Yet he was alive, in the garbage. Yet he felt warm, in that forgotten place. He felt grateful, yet hungry.

flash bump crash

The boy would peek out from his smelly castle, and found fresh food and clean clothes. There was naught but a note, *"From your lucky star"

Sometimes I feel like I'm not really here.
Whether it be the lack of self assurance or the constant fear.
I feel like I don't really matter.
To help myself not shatter.
I remember.
Those lovely, lonely nights in December.
I reminisce.
In how I used to enjoy this.
In how I used to be.
I used to be me.
I used to be me loving you.
And at some point that became so untrue.

These memories are not perfect.
Yet they are mine.
Things of the past made me feel like ****,
I was never fine.
But these memories belong to me.
They make me who I am.
I just need to remember who I am.

I'm going to miss this place,
with it's countless amount of forgettable faces.
I'm going to miss this home,
although for three years, I felt alone.
I'm going to miss this shelter,
but sometimes it made me feel like a cave dweller.
The time went by so fast and yet so slow.
I've got a lot of people to thank or hate so,
thanks to every person that made me feel like I meant something.
And to every person who made me feel like I meant nothing,
I hate you.

Childishly so.

I graduated.
I haven't grown up.

When I am lonely,
Or you're happy,
I get drowsy.
And everytime I close my eyes.
I can hear myself cry.
I can hear you baking your pies.
So close to my ear.
Feels like you're really here.
Warm and comfortably numb with fear.

I wish you stayed.
I wish I went.
I wish we were together.

A pretty flower for a pretty face. Oh how I wonder where you go during my days. To the museums you adore. To gardens and to the sea shores. Wherever you go. I'll find a pretty flower for your pretty face. A garden for every summer I remember you. And silently smile.

I once said that people have atmosphere's within them. Worlds in their eyes. And a massive collection of fireworks on their tongues. And I once wanted to have her atmosphere to make it rain within me. I wanted her comfortable nights to coincide with my anxious days. And I wanted to feel the slow explosions on my tongue. I wanted her. Not for how cute she is. Not for how lovely she is every day to everyone around her. For the smiles I earn. For that tiny grin that assures me for a few nanoseconds that I do have a reason for being here.

Let's take it slow
You don't know.
I don't know.
Whether we just wanna ****.
Or just want comfort from things that ****.
But whatever it is, let's just take it *slowwww

She was unique in the way she spoke. Straight forward and yet in amusing riddles. She was cute in the strangest of ways, and her smile was one that didn't bring me in, but kept me at a safe distance. She was unique in the way she said her hi's and goodbye's. She would say my full name, give me a compliment, and then leave. And for some reason, that was all I could ever need from her. It's hard to admire her like I've admired others, for I think if I stare too long, I'll muddle the image of this amazing girl.

She was some kind of wonderful. She was some kind of breathtakingingly amazing. In the little known aspects of her, I loved every sentence in every chapter. Enough to reminisce when I'm lonely. Enough to base my hope off when I'm sad. She made me feel like some kind of wonderful. Some kind of wonderfully beautiful.

And yet, she is in her own sunny world. A trespasser in my rainy realm. I always wanted to hold out my hand in her time of spring, and bring her into my cold comfortable winter. But I am too weak both by society's standards and mine. I never know if I loved her. But the day she took me home, I swear she seemed so dreamy like.

Sometimes I question if she was really there.

Oh gardener of the soul. Do you smell of two lovers alone? The roses you planted are now intertwined, kissing only when the breeze blows.

Oh gardener of the mind. Do you smell of explosive happiness? The lilies you sowed into the ground are now blooming violently. Like explosions in July, they gather temporary admirers, if only for a day. If only for a moment. Making the loneliest of people smile at the defiant nature of these flowers in winter.

Oh gardener of the heart. Do you smell of copacetic feelings and romantic sunsets? The flowers you planted for your bouquet are now too beautiful to cut. Yet your lover's eyes twinkle at the snapdragons and peonies you so lovingly implanted into the ground.

Gardener of the universe. You planted gentle flowers and weeds atop my roof, they grew from the rain that you watered. They give me hope. They give me a sense of that my aching bones and ailing organs will serve as fertilizer for the flowers you grow. And I am okay with that.

Redemption.
In a way, the geode is a symbol of redemption.
On the outside, it looks as if it has nothing.
It looks as if it will never contain anything worth smiling over.
However, if one were to break the stone.
If one were to shatter it.
Force it apart.
One would find the shiny array of crystals within.
And in this way, we are all simple geodes.
Holding small complicated things inside.
But it's good.
It's good to be complicated.
For one day, someone will see you in all your complex and confusing contradictory glory.
And they will think that in this sense,
in this one instance.
That you are the most beautiful thing they will ever witness.