The Summer that Went

I passed that memory today,

not surprised it was gone.

Walking barefoot in winter,

I follow the blind dawn.

I grasped the bold heart and

the nontraditional song.

Yet felt the wrong and
held the short for so long.

I gave up on different,

because existence was a fool.

I lost that summer hot,

for a facade of cool.

So why does it seem so clear

when its completely a daze?

So why has my troubled

heart been sent ablaze?

Nostalgic

So many times I've held a melting popsicle in my hand.  You know, the kind that slides and sticks down your skin as the excess juice drips onto the ground?  Well, that's summer for you.  Or, at least, my summers as a child.  See, back then I hated that there was goop consuming my hand.  I didn't like that whenever I touched anything it left a bit of itself behind because the popsicle juice stuck to that, too.

And then there were those summers where I hung out with friends everyday.  I lived so many stories, I couldn't ever tell them all.  Now, they're just blurred together.  But I know I liked friends.  I liked watching movies and playing truth or dare and being scared of skinwalkers.  I liked having summer crushes.  I liked laughing.  I liked summer.

So what do I do now?  I play Zelda.  I write.  I read.  I watch TV.  Because I'm never asked to go anywhere, and I'm too lazy to initiate the asking.  But you know what's funny?  Even though I miss the old summers and socializing and playing.  I'm just fine with summer the way it is now.

Why is that?

Why do I do that?

I wish that I was covered in popsicle juice.  Then I would stick to everyone who ever touched me and they'd have to do all this unproductive stuff with me.  I mean, isn't that fun in itself?  Isn't that summer?  Isn't summer doing something with someone, even if you're doing nothing?

Crawl

You have such a twisted view on that blood-pumping organ I call a heart.  So twisted, in fact, that mine seemed to forget its purpose.  You see, the mere shock of your thought process led me straight into cardiac arrest.  Or something like that.

I don't understand that one-sided thing you do. You know, the part where you say you disregard everything?  Like the whole universe in non-existant.  Like it isn't staring you in the face.  Except here's the thing: the universe is out to get you.  Do you want to know how I stumbled across that epiphany?  I read the mumbled words you wrote down. 

Oh, I get it.  I probably get it better than you do.  I understand that blank emotion you can't place.  I have that, too.  But there's a difference between you and me.  I work oh-so hard to fix it.  To name it.  To do anything with it.  However, you do absolutely nothing.  I guess you can't even fathom the possibility of not-self-pity.

But it's okay.  Because even though I say I've given up, even though I'm working on pursuing something much greater, I know I'll be back.  Because I'm always back.  And you love that, don't you?

Dancing to the Beat of My Pulse

The silence of your thoughts is killing me.

You only to drum to your own beat.

The things I left unsaid,

and the riot in my head.

Now I’m dancing to the beat of my pulse.

While you yell in my ear.

You sound in despair.

And I don’t regret a thing.

The fire begins in my hands now.

And you have a heart made of ice.

So tell all the world your song,

tell them of heart break and wrong.

Now I’m dancing to the beat of my pulse.

While you yell in my ear.

You sound in despair.

And I don’t regret a thing.

Dreams of Flight

Wings of black against the sky,

caged and perched, he watches them fly.

Head lowered and tucked away,

slowly his dreams decay.

Gently the lone song begins,

telling of regret and of his sins.

For this begat his dreadful fate,

and now he holds a horrible hate.

This ignorant bird, quite lonesome be,

used to have it all, you see.

His wings once spread against the sky,

will never again learn to fly.

Rusty bars obscure bright light,

Oh, what a sad, pathetic sight!

Head lowered and tucked away,

slowly his dreams decay.

Revelation

Simplicity is not easily found,
I recall it's quite impossible.
Yet explanations of simple joy,
of real true faith,
seem quite probable.

I Hate My Handwriting

I am not consistent. I don’t like myself. So I change my handwriting. You can figure a person out by their handwriting.

Do their “I’s” look conceited?

Do their “U’s” have a feeling of longing?

Do their “T’s” taste good?

Do their “W’s” look friendly?

Do their “O’s” seem surprised?

So because I’m not consistent and because I don’t like myself and because I change my handwriting, I bet my words look like lies. But if they aren’t conceited, and they don’t seem desperate, and they taste good, and they're friendly, and they're surprising, then I’m okay. Because then I’ve got you believing that I love my handwriting.

And that’s fine with me.