it’s getting cold.
her work begins to pile up on her desk,
paper cascading around her off the table,
sitting ignored as she thumbs through a book,
humming softly.

and she feels ever colder,
because though she knows the sun will touch her face one last time,
she feels the impending sense of everything changing.
her freedom, her sleep, and all those books
-piling up around her in dizzying towers she can’t seem to hold upright.

each poem has become an ode.
no longer does she right those summer love poems,
notes of dreams and pining and romance.
she’s grown lonely,
and grown up.

each ode is to who she was
-the kind girl with the widest eyes and strong opinions,
this new girl with no focus,
drifts and watches the ink run down the page.
she’s so worried, because she doesn’t care.
and doesn’t care about that.

tomorrow will be better,
she says, sighing with tiredness repeating over and over again.
tomorrow.
tomorrow.
tomorrow.

but the pounding in her head won’t go away,
and all the doubts sink in
-you’ve lost your edge.
-you’re not doing enough.
-you’re never going to do enough unless you break.

her heart seems to beat colder,
slow down and she’s not that old.
she’s young, and she feels herself,
the brightness and ambition disappearing,
and they’re replaced by content and a sense of emptiness.

i'll tell you my woes
peel the corners of my skin
and though the whispers turn into silence,
i am whole.

i found the missing piece
heard the echo of your words
and though i know it is a little too late,
i am whole.

i fall apart
fragment by fragment
and you are finally here just as i close my eyes,
i am whole.

i loved to paint using your colour.

i’d go day and night, from one canvas to another, using different shades of you to paint all kinds of pictures.

i never lost any ideas.
i never had to find inspiration.
it all just comes to me whenever i look at you.

one day, i woke up colour blind. and unfortunately, it’s in your colour.

all the paintings, all the sketches, all the canvasses that were of your colour, plastered, hanged, and taped all over my walls doesn’t make sense anymore.

it was all grey. all dull. a colour i know existed but never really tried using before.

i tried searching for your colours in the things you’ve touched. the words you’ve said. i searched everywhere but whenever i do think your colour will come back, my eyes revert to reality.

now you’re just a memory.

your colour will only exist inside my mind.

those shades i loved. the pigments i crave to achieve every time i stroke my brush. it’s all in my head now.

it’s been years now. your colour isn’t as bright as i thought my memory would remind me of.

i paint with a different colour now.

actually, i paint with all the colours now except yours.

all those nights i spent painting, it’s with every colour i come across but yours.

now my wall’s full of colour again. all from different parts of me. colours i never knew existed.

now,

i’m happy. i’m content.

i’m colourful.

I am content
with thy firmament
In silence I hold my lament
My fear is my strength
it unfolds to earths length
Beyond what my eyes may see
I lay my trusty words upon thee
Home is far from blinded sight
A life hidden in a darkened night
There we fell into closeness
An abundance of things to confess
In simple wholesomeness we linger
Til I can reach thy lips with my finger

I am content
with thy firmament
the same one it will be
when we look up we'll see

if you could skip to the day
your dreams are finally true
would you be glad and say
i finally made it through
you would not say that
because you would know
you didn't have to combat
any struggles or undergo
the challenges that came
they connect you with mankind
you would quickly feel the shame
of missing the joy that can bind
your heart with other hearts
our battles join us as one
missing out on those parts
no great memories would be won
you would know you are a fake
and victory would lose its meaning
realizing skipping was a mistake
not as wonderful as it was seeming
be content living day by day
moments are sweeter than you realize
scooting passed time's natural way
is not as good as you may idealize

I don't know why I think about,
The dirtiest word I know,
My eyes start to swell up,
It starts to eat at my soul.

Why does it come across me
Why do I feel this way
Why was I born different
Why couldn't I just be the same

The dirtiest word I know
Is one that was almost met
With a bottle of pills
That I cant say I regret  

A little girl back then
Not nearly the same
Wasn't able to admit
This would be a lifelong fear

Or a threat- I guess that's right
It taunts
and haunts
Sometimes wont leave me alone

This *****, ***** word
Is really starting to take hold
It happens when I'm happy
It happens when I'm sad

I guess the words are manic,
anxious and depressed
It sounds much better simply said
Then the  real words they represent

I skipped my medication
I skipped my only step
I could blame it on some other thing
But I'm the one at fault  

I lose control of everything
Of the world that I try to control
Will there ever be a cure for the way that I feel
Or will suicide finally take hold

It gets worse the older I get
I fear it will only grow
I hate how this feels
I hate who this makes me
I just want to feel normal again

The best things in life
Are those which lack purpose.
There is no reason to go for a walk,
To watch the stars, shine in the sky
Or view the morning sunrise.
Yet we still perform these actions,
And find comfort
In the ungraspable benefits.