i forgot the sky is blue: December’s Collection of Poetry and Prose

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


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


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


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


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


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





but does anyone really understand it?


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

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