i used to be eighteen with blue hair
exuding the pure waters of my heart
to the tangled tips of my salt ridden curls
by nineteen the colors of my waves were stolen by darkness
oil spilling out
to leave a story told in the blackest parts of my eyes
but like oceans before me
the murkiness faded
and sunlight began to graze my waters
but my heart never flowed quite as strong
and the colors no longer touched my curls

blank pages
stark, crisp, white
is this purity?

why do they rustle so?

blank pages
always in piles, neatly stacked or bound
is this unity?

why do they rustle so?

blank pages
untouched, consistent, and unprofound
is this perfection?

if so,

why do you rustle, blank page?

and the bells ring deeply in the ears of those it plagues
who perpetuates the sadness that never ceases
sickens the atmosphere with the sensationalism of loneliness
for what is beauty, but the concept of others
again the trembles of sound emanate from its iron glory
deafening those who oppose its song
for what is she, but a dream