For the last few months I’ve been breaking down inside like the atoms in raindrops when they hit the concrete floor, involuntary suicide.

I don’t know why but you’ve been clouding up my mind and I feel the pressure build up inside my veins and I swear to god I can I smell you in the rain.

I feel like I miss the sunshine against my skin,
the warmth the rays left as they kissed me gently
now all I can feel is the wetness your lips
left behind as you kissed my chest,
my hands,
my cheeks.

A storms brewing ever so
and I’m afraid this will be to much for me too handle.

But I guess,
that’s why storms are named after people,
because they destroy you beautifully

Her voice is flute-song upon a wind
Known both in tall, still trees and coastal gales.
Every pleasing sound,
If of nighthawks or of August rains,
Gathers in breaths, both in and out,
In notes forbidden to all others.

A waving blade of grass, or a tumbling leaf
Will half-obscure the slight nothings
That escape upon her tender breath,
Or punctuate a moment’s surprise.
Illustration of a serene purity and tenderness
That dwells sweetly within.

Too upon those lips,
Escaping from tender cheeks softly,
Quickly appearing, yet sparse,
Between those pillars of her smile,
That restrains poorly mirth and glow,
A name comes quickly,
And delivers opulent wealth and pleasure
To be my own.

When asked what my favourite name is
my answer will always be the same
yet it will always be different
because my answer to the question will always be
the name of the one that I love.

the names of all the things here

were given post creation

a redaction full of contents unrelated

a conflated epithet

brightly shining atop screaming

gleaming

see me

understand what I'm trying to mean

in my leaning italics

referential and meaningful with research

as I lurch into your interest

ringing

Gods on fire. I wouldn't **** on it's teeth
to put out the flames. I imagine it
started as an Easter Rabbit, a Santa Claus
and grew into a monster.
Outgrew the cage. Outgrew a master.
I don't believe it's real.
I am pretentious and without culture,
illiterate in compassion,
and wear empathy like a merit badge.
It's actually almost sad
to say out loud, but I'm the closest thing
I have to a voice of reason.
Reason?
I was born in a rush, was an accident,
they say childbirth is a miracle,
but it looks like satanic ritual.
My father was pagan, my mother is christian.
She chose my name last minute
[the story I heard was that it was
a street sign].
They expected a girl.
I'm not strong in frame,
not masculine in stature or mind;
People tell me I talk to much
and I find it hard to disagree.
Volumes of words I purge
into kitchen sinks/ wandering eyes/
drifting minds/ and every word
floats ahead of me like an envelope,
yet every letter is empty.
So many definitions, shades of me,
so much **** and sunshine,
and it's all equally weightless.
A trivial guessing game...
What my name should have meant,
should have been,
an idea I could have played metaphor to,
but,
instead this mess is arbitrary.

Megan
What a poplar name
There are three Megans in my sixth period alone
Most people would want a new name
Something unique
Something different
Not me
I love my name
Sure- when I was young I wanted to change it

But now I know
I know what's so important about my name
See the fact is-
Others may have the same letters and
The same pronunciation.
But my name is still unque
Because my name is just that
MINE.
I, Megan, make my name
**Memorable.