Sometimes I wonder

If I'm just a heap of sand,

Filtering through life's challenges,

Losing bits of myself with each test. 

Sometimes I wonder

If I'm a canvass painted in invisible colours

Which is why so many people are trying to paint over it.

Or maybe they just don't like what they see.

Sometimes I wonder

If I'm just a snowflake like so many others

Hurtling toward the ground -- when will I finally hit the ground -- 

And more importantly, when will Summer come and let us rejoin him in heaven? 

Sometimes I wonder

If stars too have souls

Thoughts and memories and stories

They beg to share, but no-one knows morse code, much to their despair.

Sometimes I wonder.

Sometimes I (pretend I) don't.

What's the point of wondering

When you'll never get answers?

to: the only one i know here

from: the friend you might grow out of soon 

In a world of unfamiliar faces,

we find each other. 

We weren't best friends, before,

but now that we recognize only each other,

we can talk and talk.

I'm out of practice at conversation

and I disappear back into my head

feel guilty

feel like I'm not enough for her

feel like this will fall apart once she finds real friends

but I take a chance and start back up the communication

and I walk and talk and laugh with her

and I have a strange, unwarrented urge to take her hand.

To be connected and together and

if this universe does split us apart

as the faces begin to be familiar

I'm just glad

we've gotten this time together. 

pounding 

thrumbing

galloping in the back of my 

head

bitter

acid

swallowed before rising 

again

impulse

splurging

200 hard-earned pounds on paper

dresses

all the while

the clock ticks louder

faster

grittier 

I took my medicine, so why is 

the booming deep within cutting 

loose

sour tears

and pent up

fairy-tale painted fears

gilded in but an atom-thick mask

held -- no, caged -- and shielded by mere glass

crying

over

poor spilt watercolours

no more pretty

sleepless

dreaming

at 3 AM

and snip snip-- no more hair

but soon 

on top 

of the world

I am no longer

and I

drown

in the saltwater

a refreshing, if not bitter, sweet 

yet

longing

for a fall even longer

to hurtle down rather than slowly sink

and I

look up

at the spiderwebbing cracks

above my head

wondering

how it

would feel for it to crumble and break

sacrificing itself just to see pure starlight again 

Quiet

Oh so quiet it is when it knows I’m

Sleepless, grasping the

Pillow firmly and twisting, turning

Relax and then

Roll over again and again

Dark is all I see but it won’t

Translate to my eyes, my vision 

Wanders, and my head

With all its colors, dulled now

But ever sharp

Oblivious to the rapid red

Numbers of my clock

Chipping away at hours

Pitilessly

Less and less to rest and

All the while so very, ruinously

Quiet

Shadows blend into the rest,

Haze and myst is all there is;

The sun may sprout, born anew,

But dust and grey is still all the world amounts to. 

Dying oranges, shrieking golden hues

Screaming, clawing, clinging onto life

Before being devoured by the darkness;

How we envy the sun, in his holy seat,

But are we not in the same position? 

Why thirst we after such molten rocks --

Liquid gold to be poured -- scalding -- down our throats raw?

Begging for all the riches our miniscule existences can afford,

Only to die cold and hard and filled with dirt. 

I think, trying to remember

Those erased by time, forgotten

I breathe, shaky sour breathes

For those whose breath was cut from them.

I live for those long gone,

Sing sad melodies to placate their ghosts

And see for those who no longer can.

For I may know not what blessings I have been spared,

But I shall nonetheless allow them to be shared. 

perhaps the sunset is made of chocolate,

melting sweet beautiful, 

and we cut it up into candy bars.

perhaps the sky is made of diamonds,

shining delicate rare,

and we trim it into jewelry.

perhaps knowledge is made of watermelon seeds,

hard dark shining,

and we spit it out and put it to the side.

perhaps joy is made of grapefruit,

sour soft strange,

and we dilute it with sugar and eat it like dessert.

perhaps love is made of dandelions,

soft yellow simple,

and we pull it out of our lawns like weeds.

perhaps wonder is made of sprouting grass,

hopeful small beautiful,

and we step on it every day and yet it lives.

perhaps consciousness is made of jellyfish,

deadly beautiful ancient,

and it swims and watches itself and does not notice the

simple yet magnificent.