I doubt you think about the crack

between the seats of your car very often,

and I understand why.

It's a bit of a lonely place,

after all,

with insurmountable tan walls on every side,

a thick fog of dust weaving through

the forest of forgotten things,

and a rather extreme climate.

I doubt you think about the crack between the seats of your car very often,

which is a shame,

considering you dropped me there.

Did you truly forget?

It was a hot summer day,

and the car was packed with girls,

and you were laughing,

and I was not,

and then everyone piled out of their seats,

and then you forgot to look over your shoulder,

and then you forgot me.

And

then

I

slipped

into

the

crack.

I've made friends with the paperclips all bent out of shape,

and the iPod you thought you'd never see again,

and the old library receipts.

There's an scratched Beatles CD down here,

and faded candy wrappers,

and a bookmark decorated with streaky paint strokes and stars.

And me.

Did you truly forget?

One is a day

When white is white

Joy radiates

And peace prospers

Discord dies

On the doorstep of destruction

In the wake of adoration

Hope is reprised

All will be lost

In the wonder of it all

The greatest of stories

At no extra cost

Infinity is a day

I will forever remember

And forget

And breathe in gratefully

City Souls

Maybe in a hundred years,

Nothing will be left.

No squirrels in the streets

And no pidgeons pecking right and left.

Every streetlight done in ash

And every window done in grime.

For nothing in the world

Can stand the test of time.

But still, this is a city,

And a city is a home,

So maybe ghosts will walk the streets

And dance to Wind's low moan.

And the rats will sing the melody

(For we all know they'd survive),

As the squeak of swinging street signs

Begins to harmonize.

And maybe we'll have trickled out

And watched our city fade,

Or maybe the apocalypse

Will have drowned us in a day.

But the ghosts will still remember

Times when once this city thrived.

And the spirits will tell stories

Of when once these streets held lives.

I'm no good

At anything but running.

Running away,

Looking away,

Turning away

Thoughts that'd sting too hard to swallow.

I lie between my teeth

(Is it really a lie if I fully believe it?) 

And then turn to twist the story to suit

The poor guileless soul who is kind enough to listen.

I always wanted someone to listen.

What a bitter twist, no?

Poisoning the hand that reaches out to help you?

Oh well

No point in tormenting oneself over the past

(My efforts in penance have nevee done me any good)

So I run from my mistakes,

Run from the future,

Run from my responsibilities of the Now.

All I've ever been good at is running.

What happens when I wholly tire? 

You know, it's raining purple.

Not as cold as water

(It is tinted with a shade of passion, after all)

Not as clear as water, deceptive

(Can liquids truly lie, though?) 

Funny how something can be so beautiful

And yet so indirectly sad.

You know, I love the rain though.

I don't really mind the colour.

A new experience, mind filled with mild speculation

Funny how no one else will take the time to notice. 

lockdown~

'silence is deafening' is a phrase that you've

never truly understood until now.

teenagers aren't meant to be this quiet, you think.

not a single hushed whisper or giggle.

its unnatural.

pressed shoulder to shoulder in the

corner of this basement science room

no windows so everything is dark, dark, dark

except for one square of harsh yellow

from the window on the door.

your hands are shaking.

you want to text your family

and tell them you love them

but you're afraid that the phone screen will

light up the tears on your face

like a neon sign

and even worse: you'd have to

see the fear twisting everyone's faces 

as they turn to stare at you.

so you close your eyes instead and

wait

wait

wait

wait for the intercom to come alive and tell you to breathe again.