Color the sky with cerulean blue.
Know in your heart it will be true.
Paint the clouds titanium white.
Use indigo to pigment the night.
Oh, painter, your palette is as sharp as your knife.
May it guide you towards vibrancy all of your life.

Red for economics,  
green for English,  
white for ICT
your files stacked in my hands,  
pages filled with notes in your careful script
I never needed to ask; you just lent them
as if sharing knowledge meant sharing a part of you. 

A classroom of seventeen,  
but I only counted one.
I traced your desk with my fingertips,  
opened your pencil case just to see  
what colors you carried,  
what secrets lived between the erasers and sharpies.  

We worked in groups,  
side by side but never quite close enough.  
I stole glances when I thought you wouldn’t notice,  
but maybe you always did.  
Maybe that’s why you smiled so easily,  
why you never pulled away.  

Years have stretched between us,  
but high school still lingers like a cozy
dream  
I wake from too slowly.  
Your files, your laughter, your presence in the last row
they live in me
as if time forgot to take them when it took you.

A racing heart beating into wine
But not of her usual consumption
Though eyes, nose, and mouth do collide
If you could picture the sky melting
From a polluted pumpkin patch
To the ocher yellow drawl of a sunny day
You would meet me in the autumn rhythm,
Sinking into the scent of raspberry-poisoned honey.
Eat me in the form of pomegranate-shaped pearls
The tool of Winter’s maker seeks contrast
Of a thorn’s peck on fragile snow.
Marmalade, you are my mauve-colored sheep
Sing your song through the fangs of a monster's breath
I sink into your embrace wild and vivid with jeweled-toned eyes

A periwinkle sunset ran across the room
only to devolve into the slippery realization
that the heaviness of wanderlust can be no more

Drunken illusions peck at me once again
sober lullabies dance merrily in rainbow bubbles
drifting through a nebula, Zinging with glee

the couch proclaims another victim
****** into the vacuum of many coats
all fuzzy or woolen cuffed

Punching through the withered vindrals
blinded with foggy concrete
a fluttering vision of gems

makes the garden cornucopia come to life
A creeping smile spiders up the face
with blank stares into empty jars

radiating a glittery photocopied jaw
Now becoming closer to thee
crawling through the messy webs of despair

Children's laughter carries you closer
till suddenly vimbers rattle past
subtlety crunching leaves, you looking up
at the bottom floor

I never liked summer.

Not as a child.

Huddled by a fireplace,
no shirt and a short just a mere 5 year old,
Begging the flames to give me the warmth I crave.

I never liked summer.

Maybe it was the silence,
The empty walls,
The way life seemed to move on without me.

I never liked summer.

Winter had always been kinder,
Bringing people closer,
Wrapping me in a cold I understood,
and loved.

But then you said,
"Summer is my favorite season."
And winter lost its warmth.

The snow felt sharper,
The fire distant.
And summer— Summer became the heat of your voice,
The glow of your presence,
The warmth I never knew I needed.

what I once clung to as a dreamland,
fades away in the world of you.

With nothing but your words,
You rewrote my thoughts and bent my beliefs.

I felt every stubborn inch of myself crumble accept it's fate,
that even your lies become my truth,

and your beliefs are mine to carry

Arrived as a shadow,
a breath in waiting rooms,
voices flickering like moths.

No gods stitched footprints,
prayers dissolved like ink in rain.

Paper thickened,
names erased.

Then, a hand—
a lantern through the dusk.

Pulled from refusal,
names spoken,
ribs stitched with letters.

No temple, no prophecy—
just a voice breaking machinery,
until gears cracked beneath it.

In the hum of verdicts,
a voice that did not break.

Lemon-flavored poppy-seeded pearls crunch
Between the iridescent glint of my smile
As river beds are littered with glittering
Scales of a tumbling rich white sneeth.
Snollywaggs petter through the trempint forest
Hanging off of each piece of foliage
Are glossy globs of translucent orange marmalade
Going mitter mitter by the Trillow tree
Is the hollow ringing of an intrinsic song

Produced by the withering of an Old God
Laughter trickles into the billowing air as humble giants
Hunt for peace about the cherry orchard grove
Woven mittens craft themselves onto wriggling fingers, poking in and out
Of unintentional holes found among its wearer’s
***** memories seeping out of the cracks
Flowing with a sticky flag stripped with dreams
Lingering in the shadows and meshing through

The confetti-covered walls. Hushing the clorgals
Raining down through the forest’s tangles
Is a weary process’s manifestation into a string of lights.
Black holes **** in another wonder
Towards the Nymph’s saddened stories
Whispered as a second century passes
Across the timpited marks along their skin
And into their mind that flies
Only to start the journey home again for the first time.

Yellow bleeds into empty space,
Fingers trace what’s forgotten—
Light bends, but doesn’t reach,
No warmth, no trace.

The wind erases what it touches,
Thoughts drift, lost in air.
Inside, a silence stretches,
Where words once lived.

A river fades,
But whispers crash—
Water turns to dust,
Silent in my chest.

A name, a face—
They slip like smoke,
Dissolving into nothing
I cannot grasp.