Poetry

Ce n’est pas ton nom qui flotte dans les airs,

ni tes mains tremblantes comme un rayon éclair,

ni l’arbre qui pend au-dessus de ton visage,

ce n’est pas le soleil, ni les ombrages

Shattered dreams run with the tears of rain

down the car’s windows excruciating life

Rampaging noise smearing my skull

Screams tear my shredded heart

Fractured stained pieces searching for a sun

You ask who I am.

Honestly, I wonder that too.

Sometimes I'm one thing, other times another.

Sometimes I feel like I'm just shattered glass piecing itself back together.

And then breaking again.

she comes from a world

of puddles and stars.

from a world where

lion and lamb play

innocently, happily together.

a world where she wears

her heart on her sleeve,

and hopes and trusts although

There's an oversized panda bear sitting on my bed right now.

Normally I don't even think about it.

Why would I?

But right now I am.

And it made me think

can it see me?

does it think about me?

It's a band piece

weird, I know

it's from last year

and we only played it in concert once

but it means a lot to me

it reminds me of a lot.

Of Webtoons and authors and demented circuses

Far too often the piles cascade too high

I can't see the top of who I am

even though I chose each object,

each emotion,

and each action.

I can't understand the tip of the iceberg though

emptiness is sort of strange, isn't it?

when you've got

an empty piggybank

or

an empty backpack

it isn't much,

it's nothing really.

but to feel empty,

to feel hollow and frankly

The mirror

It speaks now.

Always talking, 

exclaiming, a

constant reminder of the things

that were.

Its image, changing,

sends me back.

This is inspired by and dedicated to Ilia Malinin, who found the possible in impossible, carrying himself with his dreams

True wisdom comes from knowing we

know

nothing.

It wasn't one moment

That made me fall in love

With snowboarding

I didn't stand at the top of the mountain

As the wind whipped my hair

And decided I loved to snowboard

It wasn't the moment when

I don't know why

but something in me loves

to dance just out of death's reach

to swerve between its fingers,

there, but impossible to grasp

letting an inch decide my next breath

it makes me feel