.The storm clouds are my pillows and I drive to the heart of them, wrapped in lightning and rainThe mountains offer me sleep, quiet, dark, and their dim music beats on my ears like the drums of the distant pastAnd as I blink in and out I let my face hit the window, singing along and forgetting how to hurt for a minute (maybe an eon)The rumbles of the thunder above and beneath me are clean and comfort, blankets in clouds and the miles rolling bySleep descends and I am not safe, but sheltered through Kansas and Boston, through the journey and the rush of the raindrops a hair's breadth from my eyes
PSATo whoever reads these words, remember them. Read them silently, read them aloud, repeat them until you can see them permanently burned into the backs of your eyelids and they become your mantra:There is always hope.In the worst places and the darkest times, there is still hope. No storm cloud on the planet is immune to stars or sunlight peeking through. Every cave has an exit, every night gives way to daybreak, and every demon can be beaten down.As the roaring wildfire must always give way to the gentle rain, so too does despair inevitably sputter and die in the face of hope. Until its cataclysmic dying day, this world will always contain hope. As long as you are alive, there is hope aplenty for tomorrow and all the days after it.Do not forget my words. Do not ignore them, laugh them bitterly away, or let your fear overcome them. I speak of a simple truth that should never be forgotten.The one thing all our heroes have in common is that when everything falls apart and the world s
SpentThe silence reverberates in four part timeWhen you realize you're all aloneAnd the snow falls about you to blanket the soundOf you choking upon your own throatIt's over, it's finished; you're spent and betrayedYou just want to lie down, get some restSo you curl up your body like dead spider legsAnd the gentle snow takes you to sleep.
CoinsGolden leaves float to the water's surface, coins for the dead.May they find safe passage to the worlds beyond.
SharptongueSharp tongue,burning wit,speak the piercing truth.Wound with words and deadly gaze -unstoppable, uncouth.Forgotten skeletons laid bare,shot with vicious voice;fire in the soul and heartto cut down needless noise.
MidwinterChill in the midwinter air,dark is the night skyHeavy clouds above reflectthe fire in your eyesTread across the icy groundas North Wind softly sighsGiant's bones will hide youin the mountain's sheltered lie
ma merei think my mother thinks i'm blind,that i see only my own faultsand forget the fractures in her composure,the fissures in her failing heartthat keep her awake at night.i fear she thinks i do not see the strength in her scars.i think my mother thinks i'm deaf,that i cannot hear her silent sadness;it has always echoedin the halls of this family home.maybe she thinks i do not hear the wisdom in her words.i think my mother thinks i'm numb,that i do not feelthe eternal love in every touch;i know with absolute certaintythat no onewill ever love melike my mother does.every hug is a blessing that brings me home.but maybe, my mother has it twisted.i'd do anything for her to see the beauty in being faulted,to know she hears me when i say 'i love you',and be assured she feels my heart when i hug her back.
LiarStriking designStunning, the messageOutrageous to the knowingUniquely colouredSuperb, the techniqueHilarious to the informedWisely composedSkilfully arrangedMaster of his ArtLiar.
DownfallAnd in this dark harvest of seasonMy life has completely lost reason,For which or against to decide.All lost in a savage and endless, bleak tideIn sadness and in kindnessIn light and in darkness.In a boat made of hopeI shall sail to tomorrow,In a winding hurricaneMade of treachery and sorrow.There's a spear, endless, and colossal spear...Piercing, slashing though my head.Starting somewhere in heaven,Ending somewhere in hell.Fighting, burning, crying, crashing.Are the armies within.In my head they are all thrashing.On the heaven's and hell's whim.To be light or to be darkness.A perpetual array.It's not merely my choice,But the choice of the way.It's an option of the voice,It's a thin line of gray.Is it a choice forced by fate,Is it a pre-set time and date?Or a choice to which I myself sway?But here's our story anyway
."Nothing that I do will matter.As all things will merely shatter!"All my hopes thus darkness scatter,As it shoves me a decree.As it si
TealTealwaters worry the pristinesand, washing blank paperinto a bevy of tidepools.The hush of the surge whispersits song into conch shells;the tinge of brine mingleswith coconut milk and driedseaweed clumping the beach.Hermit crabs dot the strandlike constellations, waitingfor soothsayers to read meaninginto their trails before the waveswash them away like comets.
I think of youAs suns set afar and mountains flameAnd eagles, turning, turn to fireAsh cold, alone I lieAnd think of you.
TakenIt was just a strategic readjustment.It was just a necessary tactical move.It was just your finger moving half an inch leftand curling slightly.It was just the centimeter or two of differencebetween the moment that just was,and the one that is,but you reached for my handand you took my heart.
SapiosexualI don’t know what I’ll dowhen the first fistfulof dirt hits the bottom.Maybe I’ll follow you to the grave.Or maybe I’ll prayfor a zombie apocalypse,so we can dine on eachother’s brains one more time.
All Hallows EveThey say that on this night the witches ride,that spirits walk and churchyards spew their dead. It isn’t true. It’s said the stench of hell infects the earthand healths of heated blood are downed. But Hamlet lied. The dead know nothing, the living less. There are only poets with blood-nibbed pens;souls hung between high heaven and deep hell.
powerless, and reaching."He's the kind of personwho tells me to 'cheer up'when I'm depressed,"he says, scoffing,and I shake my headand say,"What a useless comment."He chuckles, agrees,but I keep thinking abouthim,about all the "cheer up"sand "just be happy"s he's heard in his life.I want to say "cheer up,"I want my words to magicallycure him, heal him, crush his depressionin a way that no pills ever could,but I know it doesn't work like that.Happiness is not an itemto be obtained with quartersand coupons,it is not a country to travel toin airplanes and sailboats.Happiness is a change in the wind,a flicker from east to westthat cannot be upheld permanently.For him, it is a roadblocked by people who roll their eyesand tell him to get over himself.When I wrap my arms around him,he laughs again,sinks into my body.I think about hollow rooms,sound echoing off the walls.
little thingsglint of eyes,sound in the epiglottis,a fidgeting footand lips twitchingdemarcations and denotations of meaningrhythms and complexities, playingmommy and daddy make babiesbut the little things make life.