I remember when all of my dreams were in rainbow. Now, everything I do I have to Technicolor because it's all become so black and white... so subtle hues, no longer Prismacolor me and you. I sharpen those pencils, but they still come up dull. I shade and shade and shade, but it all comes up a shady review. I miss the rainbow when my dreams were caught all throughout the day; and not just late at night, when I couldn't sleep because everything was dark, and too steep to climb, and only in rhyme because I have not become THAT gray poet.
We all know that nothing can grow if we don't water it. So, sometimes together, we are going to have to drink up. Throw away all abandon and run through the sprinklers. and purposely forget our umbrella in the car.
We don't have a choice of whom we fall in love with. We don't have a choice of whom we fall out of love with. We only have a choice to stay or leave— it's a set menu at a fixed price. But, what if we don't like either of our options?
I forgot my key. The question is: who do I call now? Landlords and locksmiths have become more loyal than you when you're the only other person that I gave a copy to in these places that I can only seem to rent.
For those that say it is better to sleep when you're dead... They mustn't dream like me, for there's no sleep in my asleep; my slumber's the liveliest place to ever be!
I will always remember the integer that opened me up; but it is clear to me that you always forget the final unit, because that's easier than finding out what is left inside when you can't Master Lock me. Go ahead... forget the combination. I'm finally okay with admitting that we were always at a deadlock anyway.
I've been coasting down these open roads alone for so, so long— traveling the roads less traveled on my own, taking in the scenery. But, now I am here to s(t)ay... you can ride in my sidecar, any day.
When tongues lack bravery and hearts protect their own, eyes always tell the truth.
Little snail, out after a hard rain, hiding in her shell— trying to make it to the wishing well, but being told that she's too small to lift the pennies in... because she did not make them on her own.
It might be true that I am a lightweight when it comes to falling in love, heavy.
This bitterly cold weather is a shift from an even colder half of year. It's as if we're back to some sort of embryonic development that brought us to where we started: an inertia of life— changing positions like atoms within a molecule— the cruel, cruel curse of the winter sunset... a reminder that natural light comes and goes as it damn well pleases.
So many things in this life that you would consider trash are my personal diplomas, my favored scars, my most priceless junkyard. So many things that meant nothing to you are the encyclopedias to my whole, are the ticket fares to my soul, are the things that you repoed when I caught you dressed in black... wearing the things you've stolen, filling pockets of me, swollen.
Don't think twice; once is enough. If you have to think again, it will always be a second thought.
I can hear the moths crackling and burning on the bulb, I see myself as one of them, flitting around this porch light. I can imagine me bewitched by the wink and sparkle, but I couldn't imagine myself taking up camp here, forever. I am suddenly abundantly aware that this is not even summer yet. This is just a porch with a jerrybuilt swing and creaky planked floors, a frayed recliner, and splays of gray hairs just (now) taking root. I remember that first summer when we strung sprinklers like toy lanterns...
You can keep moving your blowup mattress around in the night where the shadows keep you pretty, and cover your face, so that no one can see that you have a home in me that you won't admit you'll never and always be: the beach bum of my heart.
It takes a lot for me to close a door, but when I do, I slam it.
Sometimes it's the distance between us that keeps us close.
Every ending is always a beginning. Without endings, there would be no beginnings. I don't know about you, but you can't begin to live without knowing how to end... well.
A good writer never tells your secrets, they tell their own. They sacrifice themselves and surrender you.
I slept like a rock Coming through my window Woke up with new light