Day: October 25, 2019

Youth is a treasure,
It's meant for pleasure;
It's meant for discipline;
It's meant for sin.

Youth is a rose.
When it blooms,
Its beautiful, rich petals
Your senses they consume.
You are the sun—
Your rays allow for the rose
To grow.
You are the water—
You keep the rose
Growing.
You are the seed—
You plant the possibility of youth.

But there are times when too much water
Drowns the rose
There are times when too much sun
Dries out the beauty of the rose.
Like a rose,
Youth flowers just like the rose;
It there for one season;
Then it goes.
The rose petals begin to wilt
And just like that,
the world is still.

Youth is a treasure.
Youth is a rose.
In the strobe lights,
Another Saturday night,
Another party in my brain,
Another rambunctious Sorry game,
I see your face
Beautiful like china,
Beautiful as Paris.

You stick out
Among a row of men
In white collars
And black suits.

Eyes
Limpid pools
Of ocean blue,
Flitting from the cerulean screen
Glowing against your face,
And back to me.

The strobe lights begin to flicker,
And the white collars disappear.
The world is us
If we establish thus
A bond,
If we establish thus
A place
Where we mix together like yin and yang,
Together like melody and harmony.

The stitches of fate bind together.
Warm intertwines with cold.
Fire and rain neutralize.
And the world curls into brightness.

Once upon a time.

Shadows.
She sees shadows
Shaped into the outline
Of her demons.

Her breath.
Her breath grows soft,
Nothing more
Than the gentle hum
Of summer air.

But her thoughts.
Her thought are cold.
Cold as winter.
Cold as ice.
Sharp as a knife
When she sees the shadows.

Her hands.
Her hands,
Once stretched into the light,
Now curled into fists.
Fists of darkness.

The shadows.
The shadows,
Gray as the world
Carve into the darkness.
The darkness of her chest.

Its cadence.
Its cadence mimics the song of her heart.
Her heart turns to stone.

Her eyes.
Her eyes become blind.
Blind to the darkness.
Blind to the world bleeding before her.

The song in her ears.
The song in her ears is a pulse of metal;
Its refrain is a surge of crescendoing ire.
It cuts her senses like a knife.

The world ignored her.
But she ignored the world first.
She overreacted,
And strove to be the worst.
What went first,
And which went last
Is not a question;
It's a question of
What came first
And which came last:
The darkness
Or the loss of her youth
Is now in the past.