For what it's worth,
You were always my favorite mistake.

A dreary little nightmare
On the outside is a dream
But the only time there is peace
Is when I'm fast asleep.

Now that piece is shattered
Because this dreary little nightmare keeps waking me.
My roses, my sunlight, my flowers, my trees, withered away and died with me.
No mater how much they are watered with amphetamines, resurrection is not enough.

My nightmare has very small daydreams that die as quickly as they come to spring.
My gardens are trampled on by idiotic teens.
And no matter how much I try not  to feel lonely.
I'm in a dead garden, and there's only just me.  

But the raincloud ahead could bring joy to my fettered limbs.
But it's over eight seasons of dryness before.
By then I may be too dried up to grow.
This is my nightmare, this is my time, this is my trial, but I don't know for what crime.

So maybe in the darkest dawn when I see a rose bud grow
Ill pick it, but not hit its thorns
Paint my spirit with the joys of a new season.
But my nightmare has only just begun.


I have a long way to go.

You're the words of love
with every turn of the page
of my life, that burns
bright in the night,
and sets the day's scene
just right,
for the love you
bring, starts the story
to sing, and the melody
drifts through every chapter
like mists surrounding me,
and you continue the tune,
with every page
that I view,
from the beginning,
until the end,
and then I re-read
it all over again,
the book that you've
entitled, "I Love You"
-because the story is true:
"I love you, too!"

__
the book:
http://beautyineverything.com/5092820337

What are we,but children wrapped in time and still patience,
ascension of duration and climate and colours.
pretty circles, spinning infinitive,past street lamps,dim glows
bright against cold darkness and steam from mouths hesitant
to speak in chill. Tight scarf,arms clamped possessive against chests,feet shuffling
the awkward Autumn dance to walk fast,walk away,walk wild
against chapped lips,goosebumps and clear air that pulls minuscule hairs
and airs. And childhood reminders,bonfires and gloves and bright red cheeks,
posing as memories for yesteryear and pumpkins, grotesquely shaped.
Not great,
not perfect.
Perfect is the sodden leaf,swollen with rain shimmery in the gutter, simultaneous steps. Nostalgia,the creep of the wind against windows shut,home an escape, the fire flames flickering in eyes wide for wanting.

I think Rain is the weary humanitarian.
She’s the voice of reason,drowning the world in throbbing anger with watercolours, smudging pavement and hesitant minds. Not tears, or sympathy, she’s yelling for us in pristine drops of impatience.
Wake up! What are you doing?!
She whispers so loud, she’ll tear us apart,ground swollen with her heartfelt anger. She hates us, really. She’ll erase us away,no laugh on her lips. Just the rat-a-tat of old typewriter keys and maleficent moisture.