Writing

i love spring

anyone who knows me knows that

i love how the butterflies swarm me

and the pixies make you cough

and how you can taste summer

in the sweet honeydew maple air

on the other side of autumn

When I met a girl on Omegle who read me like three incoherent, handwritten, multi-page love poems

I think that's what it means to feel something

breathing in

breathing out

i have a dream

for myself

when im double my age

anxiety still choking me

making it hard to breathe

on my own now

maybe a lover

maybe not

an actor

I hear the river running, 

flowing with not a care in the world.

I see the leaves falling to the ground,

a thick carpet on the forest floor.

I feel a light breeze on my skin,

when you first buy a bulletin board,

it is blank.

just a plane of cork

bordered by a wooden frame.

bland, boring, and wholly pure,

it is shaped into art.

it is molded and carved

What is Change?

Well, what type of change?

Physically?

Mentally?

Spiritually?

Idealistically?

People might say it's all the same,

but is it really?