Once upon a time,
there was a rose,
that grew,
on the moon.
One morning,
it was dawn break,
and it was in bloom.
The petals had uncurled,
an aromatic scent lingered out,
and for some reason,
one curious little mind,
woke up much too early,
to find this scent,
in their nose.
Only to find the moon,
in the sky,
bright and full,
and a rose scent,
all around.
Cocking their head,
they just knew,
that this didn’t make sense!
It was morning,
not night,
and why,
oh why,
would the moon,
smell of a bouquet,
of roses,
and not a handful,
of stardust?
This mystery,
must be solved,
they pondered,
but how?
A ladder maybe?
One really, really tall?
Made of twigs,
and branches,
tied together,
hastily?
No,
that’s silly,
it’s just the,
moon.
There can’t be,
a rose,
on there,
but they smell it.
Maybe if they wait,
and stay up,
just a little bit,
too late.
Do you think,
the moon,
might be in,
a lake?
Get a boat,
a couple of paddles,
and you’ll get a whiff of it,
I promise.

Some say,
the glass,
is half empty,
Some say,
the glass,
is half full,
I just say,
it’s broken.
Not expecting,
anything at all.
And isn’t that easy?
There’s no line,
on that imaginary glass,
waiting to be filled,
or emptied.
It’s just,
broken.
No expectations,
at all,
not waiting,
for a,
**** thing.
A broken thing,
can’t be filled,
no matter how hard,
you try,
it just makes,
a mess,
all over.
Almost like,
the thoughts,
in your,
mind.
Just make sure,
it’s not,
made of,
glass.

I ordered,
Chinese food,
last night,
cracked a cookie,
the slip of paper,
told me,
I was,
going to,
die,
and that I,
needed to,
live,
my life,
instead,
I swallowed,
the words,
of advice,
we never take,
but probably,
should.

I’m in need,
of a savior.
Just something,
to pull me tight,
and tell me,
no,
don’t go,
I need you.
But life,
isn’t the movies.
You’re the one,
who told me,
that line.
I kinda sorta,
always thought,
life was ironic,
the way it,
worked out.
How I’d say stop,
and the sign,
well it would,
yell at me,
to go.
Swallow the lump,
turn around,
but no,
no,
not this time,
I gotta,
go,
I’m going to,
run.
I’m sorry,
I’m going home,
to the fields of daffodils,
and dandelions,
that we make wishes on.
Even if,
they may,
or may not,
come true.
That’s,
what’s fun.
Life will never,
be the movies,
but it’s certainly,
a song.

my mind
is a birdcage
rotten
with blood
and feathers

©KNL