Luminous words formatted
with clear conscious of vivid
strokes of the hands. A shame
that it didn’t get the results
as one desired.

So many words.
Which to choose.
Amplify.
Execute.

Which to use.

Validate.

Embolize.

Constitute.

Simple smooth ambivalence

Relative.

Dissonant.

Hellenistic rhetoric.

Romulas.

Immanence.

The sunset girls with warm smiles and sweet laughter. With ice cream, diamond earrings, diaries, romance movies under fluffy blankets, strawberry shortcake, lemonade made slightly too sour with a pink paper straw and perfect ice cubes.

The midnight girls with a wild side and messy hair. With perfect eyeliner, surprising laughs, black sketchbooks, late night ramen runs, stolen oversized sweatshirts, black cherries, fluffy socks under polished black combat boots tied in a neat little bow.

The sunrise girls with addicting voices and perfect high ponytails. With slogan t shirts, velvet scrunchies, red lip gloss, chocolate covered bananas, paintbrushes and easels, early morning hikes, coffee with creamer, foam, and probably too much sugar.

The sunshine girls with bright grins and  kind eyes. With light blushes, sweatpants, rainbow sprinkles, nails painted, flower tattoos, peaches and cream, messy bangs, sketchbooks probably covered in stickers and crop tops just short enough to tease, paired with cute bralettes.

You make me sober in ways I don't understand.
The way you kiss me,
The way you hold my hand.

It makes me feel like I have purpose.
Like I can finally breathe,
As if the weight upon my shoulders has left.

Every single time that I feel hazy,
buzzed and gone,
I think of you and I can see clearly.

But I'm sorry that I didn't think of you that night...
When I clearly wasn't in my right state of mind.
The way I yelled at you, and left...

I was intoxicated with the monster.
I decided to drive away.

Little did I know,
I wouldn't return,
and the men in blue would show up at your house.

I am dying.
With the crimson gentle stroll,
of the parched winter glow.

I am dying.
Of the thorns dwelling within the whisper's den,
and the menacing spikes of my broken pen.

I am dying.
From the agonizing tempest that pervaded my soul,
it is no more a riddle; an Apocalypse is born.