11.8.11
Death
is routine.
It is
expected.
Yet,
why are we surprised
when it happens to someone
we know?
Someone we love?
Someone we hate?
It is something
that happens to others.
Never us.
Sometimes it
consumes
what we want
and what we don’t.
But in the end,
all
that really matters,
is how we are remembered.
Will I make an impact?
Or will I drown in an ecclectic
mixture of
the various
drugs
I cannot seem to stay away from.
Will my family
have to live with the fact
that their only daughter
was so masochistic and
selfish
that she had no regard
for anyone but
herself?
No,
that can’t happen to me.
I must be referring to
someone
else.

i remember when the sky felt blue,
when the grass felt new,
when purple flowers newly blooming begged me for sufferance,
carrying a scent no one remembers and that cannot be replicated

the poles felt electric, the week felt ecclectic
the lights had color that the past took with it, whimsical,
fading
they took the time of day with them as the moon ascended
and the air began to smell of night

imagination took flight in our fort beneath the stars
we felt something from passing cars, and the existence of mars
the night burned slowly as we barely slept, as colors whirled and drifted by, as tangible as the air, and it all felt righteous, it all felt fair