I'll unravel our thread before it's even spun
my dreaming and my pining and my manifestations
they'll be smoke choking out our garden before it's even planted

Flowers bloom
The sun shines bright
The outside seems alright

But you're there
All bottled up inside

Storms don't last
But yours felt like
Clouds of dust following you
All year round

All you wanted was to shine
But all you see is their squinting eyes
So you stayed behind
Waiting for the crowd to be kind

So you wished
If there was another universe
Where your feet wasn't chained to the ground

You started your first day
Thinking of new beginning
But you stayed inside your head
And ended up running
"Maybe I couldn't"

Strangers and friends
Didn't differ that much
Gone faster than the wind
They wouldn't look back

I criticize myself
under a microscope
devoid of all hope,
as I continue to display
the raging ocean
on a dusty shelf,
left all but forgotten.

******* by the century-old life
which I created, that was never there.
I breathe in the depravity and loss.
And of you—the one that I lost.

I continue to fall under
the trance of repetition;
in addition to the grief
that crowds my vision

I have discarded
the golden arrow,
pointing to the right path,
walking 'round in circles,
how does each breath cost?

I am afraid that
I have grown to love the war,
the fear, the woe, and the anxiety of something
that looks so close but is far.

Now, every stroke of the painting
of the memories that I create,
engraved in the mind of the lonesome author
who does nothing—but over-analyze it.

My body keeps buzzing
like the sound of
one thousand cicadas
reborn with the spring
and I thought they would flee
with the first frost of the season
and yet there is snow falling
from the deep grey sky
and my bones keep rattling inside me
and the cicadas never die.