Black moss and flower pots.
She cometh not, she cometh not.
Lonely and moated,
Rusted nails broken.

Dew with tears,
An hour before sunlight.
Cold winds wake,
A greyish mourn.
Clustered marish-mosses,
Silver green bark.

In a dreamy home.
Among wainscot,
Door hinges creak.
Like a mouse,
She shrieked-
She cometh not, she cometh not.

In this way I see these too,
The cohesive clumps of rabid thoughts,
Running, scampering, dancing of their own tune,
Careless of any other.

I try to decipher this life where it all makes sense,
To everyone but me.
To breathe in the same winds as the hints of a summer's bloom,
means to me,
not the same as you.

Brooding at the corner of my unkempt bed,
Imagining, the latter days where I may have just stepped aside,
To cry inside,
but in plain view.
To decipher these nights where nothing makes sense,
Makes sense,
To me,
and to you.

Some way I know this pain,
It shamed me to love the way it flowed,

I'm looking at my scars,
Beauty in the burdens.

But I only masked my true pains,
For every night I bled outside,
I also bled within.

Find the blade that cuts your heart,
And get away...
So you no longer have to search for the blade that cuts your arms.

i am the ripple on the pond
\
the pebble you've cast
makes me see my own reflection
/
i

To speak of my pains is my release from which.
It is not merely my drudgery within the muds of self-wallowing.
It is an awakening when I read my own words and learn who I am in that moment.
It is a point from which to move on, a stepping stone.

When my fires burn invisibly,
Blissfully I stand across the path of my pain,
Aging to wonders I'd never known, but,
I dare.