red against whitegrey against blackblue against purplefloats around endlesslyalways covering the eyeshiding itself from the outsideand it always bumps into anothercausing more distress to itself each timehug tight the hostand register the heavinessabsorb the positive around the hostuntil it has had its filland moves onto another host
I'm drowning againThe youth is not coming backThe reflection of mineI can't dare to look at itLoathe and nausea comes creeping inYou were long goneThe moment I scared ofThe thoughts that comes backI'm living because I can't dieI don't have anything I want to doIt's nothing that fills me againNumbnessThe thing I barely know ofI'm drifting againI'm falling againI'm crying again
it kills meit makes me sickI'm drown inside my thoughtsI don't feel like methe darkness consumes meI keep telling myself,"you're okayyou'll get through thisthings will get better"when I knowdeep downI'mBroken
Poison ivy crawls at its root,I dare not approach it,It has an air of hate.One would say a man had been hanged to its branches,It holds them in such a way.The moon gets tangled in it,A distant steeple seems to barkFrom its belfry to the sky.Something that no one ever loved,Is buried here:Some grey shape of deadly hate,Crawls on the back fence just beyond.Now I remember--once I wentOut by night too near this oak,And a red cat suddenly leapt
Long vast shapes... cooled and flushed through with darkness....Lidless windowsGlazed with a flashy lusterFrom some little pert cafe chirping up like a sparrow.And down among iron gutsPiled silverThrowing gray spatter of light... pale without heat...Like the pallor of dead bodies.
What shall I do when the Summer troubles --What, when the Rose is ripe --What when the Eggs fly off in MusicFrom the Maple Keep?What shall I do when the Skies a'chirrupDrop a Tune on me --When the Bee hangs all Noon in the ButtercupWhat will become of me?Oh, when the Squirrel fills His PocketsAnd the Berries stareHow can I bear their jocund FacesThou from Here, so far?'Twouldn't afflict a Robin --All His Goods have Wings --I -- do not fly, so whereforeMy Perennial Things?