Writing

today's air tastes like berries

and overused metaphors. the shadows run

across golden ground, and i look 

at our old stone wall like they would in farmers' days.

a boundary, a gate

the music of circus//it's deafening//but standing in the front//while people scream and sing//is definitely magical//considering that//a thousand songs about it all//are being sung//by the one//the only//one man circus//and right in front of me//a

10:32

i have a cold and i should be asleep.

but i wonder if anyone notices the way that

each stanza in my poems

have to be the exact same number of lines.

10:34

unfinished:

fractured ideas that i try to piece together into a full thought.

all things i've written about before.

him, school, pain, sleep, sunsets.

You had always been neat. As a child, you would organize your toys in order of height, and your clothes in the rainbow. Your parents had wondered about OCD, but you always said you were just tidy.