elise.writer

1. My flesh met the fogginess of the world, and I opened my eyes — so bright, too bright.

When I write,
the wind is a paintbrush
to my Dreams, carrying them
to my tender palm.
Imagination has free reign
on Infinity's masterpiece, so
she runs wild, wild and free.
When I write,
Everything is at my fingertips

I think the weather's having a bad day.
When she walks, her toes make trails in the mud, reluctant as they drag along.
When she walks, each foot is so heavy that the ground sags and frowns, and each step costs the effort of a mile.

When an air of melancholy wraps you in a chilled blanket,
drapes itself around you and pierces your skin,
I will finger its stitches, its texture, gently
I will trace the quilted and uneven beauty.

I.
I'll be another cookiecutter body to dictate
in a modern monotone just how flattened is our respect
for another social issue. I'll smile to exhibit green behavior
Cross my hands nicely and clench them till they turn purple

When I'm gone, the clouds will make way,
and I will soar between the leaves of the quaking aspens.

When I'm gone, my story will become a song,
a song that echoes from the little birds, so out of tune that everyone