Who I have cried for,
Was a specter with no blood.
Tears wasted like rain.

Something in me grows;
My soul finds its will, choice.
I am what I need.

Already August

The wind does take on a nip

and the sky yellows

{friends are like roses
some of them, pretty petals)
(others are the thorns

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣤⢔⣒⠂⣀⣀⣤⣄⣀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣴⣿⠋⢠⣟⡼⣷⠼⣆⣼⢇⣿⣄⠱⣄
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠹⣿⡀⣆⠙⠢⠐­⠉⠉⣴⣾⣽⢟⡰⠃
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⢿⣿⣦⠀⠤⢴⣿⠿⢋⣴⡏⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⡙⠻⣿⣶⣦⣭⣉⠁⣿⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣷⠀⠈­⠉⠉⠉⠉⠇⡟⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⠀⠀⣘⣦⣀⠀⠀⣀⡴⠊⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠙⠛⠛⢻⣿⣿⣿⣿⠻⣧⡀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈­⠫⣿⠉⠻⣇⠘⠓⠂⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⢶⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣶⣄⠀⠀⠀⣿⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠹⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣧­⠀⢸⣿⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠈⠙⠻⢿⣿⣿⠿⠛⣄⢸⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠘⣿⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠠⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀­⠀⠀⣿⡁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠻⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀­⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀