a small, dark shape is reflected in the large, round eyes of the owl
tilting its head, it watches the creature snuffling through the snow and listens to its feet move
it takes off from its branch with a shivering of ice

meanwhile, i pretend i dont know it can hear me and continue clambering along
i do not know if it would be better to look my death in the face


(red on white, the drops bounce)

High waisted jeans.
Converse with the colors faded,
Socks that are too warm.
Coffee that you forgot,
now it's too cold.
Goldilocks with a pixie cut,
but it's grown out.
And dyed red.

Joking about suicide but taking it seriously.
Alive on a bed with petals and thorns.
While autumn decays the terrace around to warn
you of the winter soon to storm through and
separate you from the torn.

His smile faded worse than your shoes.
And you spent a lot of time walking at night,
through puddles, trudging up dredged silt
and kicked loam
on your way half-buzzed to your apartment home.
It took a season longer for him to fade from bright
to held steadfast against the backdrop of vacuum
stagnant light.

He smells of sweat and sweetly crunched leaves.
Popular spice rub and sparkling water throat-feel.
Your jeans you bought with the holes in them are *****.
You'll wear 'em 'til you're thirty,
you're thrifty,
and frugal, but you still tip thirty percent per purchase spent.
Because you were in their black shoes once,
dressed shirt pressed and smiled to impress those
who spent less than you'd guess on their own tips back then.
Mid-20s and all you are is memories of nineteen.
A few more to even the score.

Yoga pants as pajamas. Pajama bottoms to class.
It used to be about the glances, and remarks.
Now it's about delivering yourself from the past.

You'll tip handsomely to the ugly people.
And nod your head with your chin bounce up,
in a show of recognition for the facade we all front.

You'll smile when most frown.
You'll rejoice amongst the vogue of cynics.
You will, because will is what does and you don't give up.
In a show of recognition for the facade we all front.

Your mom calls you an accident,
I call you regret.
You were supposed to be a divine sacrament,
But all you caused me is severe debt.
I wish you weren't around,
But I'm not allowed to say that to your face.
You are so **** hell bound.
What a waste of space.
You're the only daughter,
I wished to ever have,
You only prove that other girls are hotter,
Than in my day and age, they were only ave.
To me you have no value,
But believe what you want,
I'd leave your mom and you in an instant,
But that'd leave decades of haunt.

Despite these masks of happiness,
Jo drown in dark despair,
Jo mind may be a paintbrush,
What Jo create with it, beware!
The pen is mightier than the sword;
It has no limitation

Can't refrain, Jo mind can stain,
Now nothing can erase us now!

Can Jo describe the face Jo saw?
It would be ones you recognize.

Can't harm hands that holds, writes, and draws.
Imagination cursed us all with 'life.'

Jo blinded by Jo disease growing;
Jo heart is full of finite-loathing-
With secrets that Jo keep from showing,
Is disease sheep in wolfish clothing?
Flood Jo mind, with disease flowing-
Push Jo to the brink of blowing.
We hope disease think of going,
Jo weighed down to keep from floating.
Come with us, tell you 'bout Joey:
We keep Jo from being lonely,
Silent screaming, sinking slowly-
Give back Jo soul, what disease owe we.