elise.writer

The verses of how everyone treats her like she's
mad
psychotic
schizophrenic
deranged
etched between endless lines of
we've finally granted your request, finally respected what you're okay with

you know the days have become none less
than dully excrutiating when your instinct
beckons you to dread the sunrise.
that's why i favor the hour
and hours beyond
when the glowing giant of the sky
ducks beneath the mountains

There are three
trees in the meadow.
One is short and
wide, coarse and
old. One is quiet in
lichen, tall and
fair. One is sprightly and
smooth, still a bit
green. The old one's
branches gray, and she

I.
And I'm slouching in the dark,
Googling Ways To Cure Heartbreak, and
I'm clawing off my skin, eyes
Burning into that one little sentence from you, over
And over again until my body turns to

i haven't written in a while.
if my life were a painting, it would be abstract and vague,
a mess of indecipherable lines and splotches, and
i'm afraid that if i let words flow, i'll forget metaphors ever existed, 

I can't do this anymore.
Molasses presses down my throat, tasting blue.
What I wouldn't give
To lift these rusty shackles
And cry to the fading evening of
Everything I live for as whole and true.
Some genetic authorities of mine