You can't recycle wasted time
You can't fix mistakes
You can only make amends
Mistakes come with time
Mistakes come with love
You write your future
Mistakes rewrite your future
You can make amends over time
Mistakes will last
Time will not
Time is limited
But there are infinite possibilities on how you use it.

The trails of salt running down a rosy cheek,
They are a constant waterfall of blue,
Accepted by the world as weak,
But letting them pour is strong to you.

They are an endless fountain,
The key to the box kept within,
The result of a countless tiny battles,
The marks of breakage painted on porcelain skin.

They are a sign of defeat to most,
But in reality they are a war won,
They free you from insanity's grip,
A reverse to damage already done.

The beginning of this
Break.
–Down
At its foundation
Fulfilling and self-reflective, and
Rousing and neurotic and bright
And perilous
–a fever-dream
¬¬¬
Shadows that have stopped forming,
      Dead
       All
The mornings are dead
The passion is dead
The feeling of the back of my neck –tiny hairs
      All
       Dead

That human side has halted
The “I-feel-like-a-*****-but-” thoughts, gone

All dreams
All barren, with less than profound meaning
******* dead, behind the wheel.
Car trapped
Inside of a sad self-absorption

A frozen-inlet, a fissure in the glass-jar
Road paved with the litter of the late
Night, bug-eyed witless carbon copy Phish fan
Grave yard shift –stick worn-down-brain
Lazily-littered, empty-shell of a
Bottle flung, down to the pavement

Down, into the gutter

Down, into sewer

Which sweeps, down into the **** Heavens
And sits
Down, endlessly
Dreaming only to return
Into life

The insanity
The heartbreak
The fears
The passions
The talent
The jokes
The sickness
The *******

Where it all starts
Where it all eventually sleeps
Where all of this **** came full circle
Where the mind can return
Where the body can lay,
Down

At the beginning of this.
Break.
–Down

The prettiest colours of the sky are in the morning between five and six.

The prettiest colours are on my cheeks when you touch my lips.

Keep on touching and paint all of me because I'm a blanc canvas and I dont want to be.

This is the message I want to send to you

I haven't met you

but I know I will soon.

If you really
Want me
In your life,
Put me there.
I shouldn't be
Fighting for a*  spot.

It means that
Maybe
*You don't need me.

I watch the pendulum swing on my Grandmother’s old clock.
It’s three hours and twenty minutes off, and she can never fix it.
She keeps it anyways.

When I was little I used to sit in front of it
And sing along when each hour hit
Three hours and twenty minutes off.

The old clock used to wake me up at night
And I’d climb down off the top bunk
To check that it was three hours and twenty minutes off.

Now the clock is shoved in a corner,
Old and forgotten,
But still three hours and twenty minutes off.

My Grandmother’s new husband fixed the old clock.
He did what my Grandmother could never do.
The old clock is no longer three hours and twenty minutes off.
It will never be again.

I'm not quite fixed yet,
I'm still a little broken,
But I refuse to let my pain go unspoken,
Some days are better then today,
Things don't always go right in everyway,
I'm not quite happy yet,
And I think that that's ok,
Because I'm always fighting,
Every single day,
I'm not quite sure yet,
But, I think that i'll be soon,
I think i'll know exactly what I want,
And i'll love it too.