light pollution
love blinded me alike to the effect of civilization
keeping the stars a dirty secret
plant your feet
plant your feet and smell the palliative orchids.
where are you in this very moment?
be there and only there. do not consider the next step just yet.
disregard the future; it does not exist.
scan your earthly body.
how are you feeling? what are you seeing?
ground yourself.
feel the roots intertwine with every single nerve of your being.
immerse yourself in whatever you are feeling.
most importantly, do not be afraid.
and if you are, plant your feet.
without a sound
you fight to rewrite history
and i am just trying to write it down
your nature is a whirlwind
wreaking havoc without a sound
27
to grow entails discomfort and pain
but there are glimmering rays following rain
assume in everything, there are lessons
follow the path led by 27
of course, you miss me
no more simple fixes
from a few drinks with mixes
i hit the ground
without a sound
remember me
strictly in reverie
don’t come back around
don’t come around
pov
i dislike misinterpretation
i am not a stranger to alienation
it appears this one will be a test of patience
one good look, off to the races
anyways
do not fake aghast
i am a poet and you know it
but who can really decipher your displays?
you’ll just pick what suits you, anyways
the sky is the limit
the mornings are the hardest, she recited to me
on a warm afternoon in august
for it slips her mind in a brief, soothing moment
before her mourning resumes in accordance
transparent share
he wanders in and locates her there
she sits pretty but not in a chair
her lavender aura hangs tightly in the air
there is something about her, but he is not aware
she plays it chill, yet she is so scared
her scars were straight and now they are flared
prose bangs on her teeth but it does not dare
embrace the plight of a transparent share
one two three
i bought a floral notebook to record what i think of you,
a book of stranger’s poetry, and then i got two
i spent some time observing, and then i bought three
after too long in costume, we are forced into solitary
performative
i used to write in accordance with hypothetical opinions, but i gave up on that because no one seems to listen
cinematic torture
it used to come in waves, each a puzzle piece
i now feel less glitter upon tender reverie
a cinematic torture, unbeknown at 17
i find humor in how it once seemed
glimmer
entertaining this is about as useful as waiting for stability in this changing climate. it is a mental attachment; don’t you see it? i dare you to name one good trait he possesses. or is it your own glimmer you project onto him?
it is within
we chase love outside of ourselves
fervently
recklessly
tirelessly
mindlessly
but does anyone really understand it?
clarise
clarise knew without knowing
and her man was unabashedly aware
although it went without acknowledgment
it was achingly ever there
.
and it was not anything he said
but rather the glimmer in his eye
when he spoke riddles about his mistress
and revealed his cards in lullaby
miley cyrus
i believe there is a lesson to be taken from miley cyrus:
to quote her loosely and decorate it with my own perspective,
what we write is not our identity.
in a creation, oneself could encapsulate an entire emotion or two
in one instance, a fleeting moment,
which could never again repeat itself.
the product is not required to commit to a person,
never straying from their name.
some pieces are meant to be admired for what they were,
for their conveying, the feelings they evoke,
and how they relate to others, shedding light on what they could not articulate.
alike to the everchanging dynamic of this life,
they can soundly float away
into the hands of those who need it.
so on and so forth.
after days with an array of gray
the clouds cleared and an alluring hue appeared
i forgot the sky is blue
