This is an acrostic I made.

Human wants dare.

Outstanding claims contend.

Peaceful longings want.

Evil dreams hope.

Familiar spirits like.

Undisturbed promises guarantee.

Lifelong regrets apologize.

New opportunities offer.

Earnest attempts tempt.

Spiritual aspirations aspire.

Such attempts seek. 

Cold air off the mountain

Stings the eyes and chills to the bone

But cleanses the lungs and mind all the same,

Deeply tickling some nostalgic relief when you're alone.

Those winter gales churn the endless skies

They power the tumult that are the seas;

It whispers maddening never-ending 'why's

And caresses gently, all the while threatening to freeze. 

I wonder what unimaginable good deed

I must have, in a past life, done

To witness such slippery glory of the night steed 

Amongst the frozen shadows cast by silvery sky-pond, shone.

I wonder in which sin I must be indulging myself in

When I breathe free into darkened breeze, cool and soft against my skin;

Set eye upon lingering spittle of the stars above, those I once sought to soar beside, 

The air itself tugging my mind to the sea, in which I long to rejoin and hide.

But alas, I have yet more time to bide,

For it is not yet time for waking or song or thought to arise;

Instead we must wait for the sun-chariot to ride

Beyond the clouds and High Palace, settled in the skies. 

Why do cameras never get the colour right?

Why do bare trees look so alluring in the dim of dusk? 

Why does the cold December wind smell icy and cool and welcoming

Despite there being absolutely no snow this year?

Why do birds cry their sombre dawn-songs together, as if keening?

Who do the numbing raindrops that so refresh me mourn with their petrichor?

Why are sunsets and sunrises such sad occasions, but everyone only oggles instead?

What makes people ruin the world,

Tear aways the sights and sounds and smells and tastes and feels?

It's as if they're trying to mechanize it all,

But they can never take these wondrous thoughts of mine. 

Well uh things got less confusing and more confusing at the same time? Somehow? I had a weird night. But it's not a bad confusing anymore so I'll take it. :) Anyway, here's a poem I wrote recently and didn't really hate.

september

i keep coming back to september

lost in the month where everything started and ended

sandy sunshine yellow that dulls with time

if september never happened where would i be?

better? i don't know

october passed me by

november was an eternity

everything december used to mean to me is gone

so much of it is my own fault

but i'll just keep blaming september 

we shall drift forever

Within the rifts of time

Always together

Always surrounded by chimes

erasing silence.

There is no darkness

And yet no light

Is it submerged in semidarkness?

Is it contantly night?

Will we ever know?

We will find the ends,

I am sure of that.

We'll forever be friends. 

We'll leave each other and meet up at

The end of the rift.

What do you all think? 

sometimes I wish I could just tumble,

head over heels, 

into another world. 

because nothing ever seems to happen to me in this one.

I've lived in the same small town my whole life, 

the same small house, 

the same small room.

and it scares me sometimes

because I don't want to be stuck here forever. 

generations and generations are pasted on those class pictures

that line the halls of my high school.

I know people who can see all the way back to when their great grandfather attended the same school I walk through each and every day.

and soon their picture will be up there too and their kids and their grandkids and I can't stay here forever. 

please, please, don't let me get stuck in another average family going through the motions of life,

day after day, 

but never actually living.   

Sometimes I think it's weird

How Mondays have always tasted like mothballs

And dust and attic'y musk,

And feel/look like cardboard and brown flip-fans and curtains

In a room filled with shadows but for a single ray of spilled sunshine.

It's strange how Tuesdays are blue and violet 

They taste like rain and feel heavy, dim and cool like clouds that come with it.

There is a thread of wispy violet bathed in a shadowy room when it's in Spanish.

Wednesdays are a little darker than Tuesdays, without the taste

Maybe lamenting the fact that the week is only half-over.

It looks like the feeling of the sea, if the sea had no wind or waves or thrill or magic. 

Thursdays are coarse and hideous green, maybe guacamole-coloured

And taste terrible like fresh-cut celery,

But the sun is shining, nonetheless.

Friday is the colour of the inside of a peach,

The same colour as China, ancient, Qi or half of France and Arabic;

It feels creamy and smooth and sorta like a block of cheese. 

Saturday is dainty and fair-blue like the word 'wisteria,'

It's tinged with with lemon-water yellow and smells like fresh-cut grass.

Sunday is sunny and smells like chipped white paint and hot pavement and vanilla,

Looks like Dalmatians and sun-kissed barns and feels like wind and carsickness.

Monday through Friday are arranged it a semicircle from left to right,

Saturday and Sunday looping around and awkwardly plumped flat on top.

I don't know why, but the weekdays have always been like this

And sometimes I wonder how I'd remember them at all, if I didn't have this 'calendar.' 

my friend

i have a friend

but i don't think i'll introduce her.

she doesn't like people.

and she's fragile, so fragile that

she shatters when i say her name.

my friend, she loves the night

the soft, velvety darkness that wraps

around the world, like a sable-fur blanket.

people talk less in the darkness, you'll notice.

my friend, she loves books.

though, like me, she's mortally afraid of words

in the air, they're her lifeblood on paper.

she loves weaving stories out of strings made of nothing,

building castles in the air. people don't talk when they're reading.

me and my friend, we'll sit together, comfortable -

we're old friends. i know i can trust her.

after all, she never says a word,

so how can she hurt me?

me and my friend, we go way back.

i know she'll be there for me even

when other people aren't, or won't, or can't be.

i know i can always find her in the stillness

between night and day, in those

moments in the forests of my mind

in which, for a few fleeting moments, i am free.

my friend, i know i can always find her

anywhere, anytime. all i have to do is shut my

mouth. i don't like talking anyway; i always mix it up.

say what i don't mean, switch my syllables around,

fill in awkward silences with awkwarder conversation.

small talk with strangers = my worst nightmare.

my friend doesn't understand

my quixotic hunt for words. 

perhaps because she knows it's pointless --

but i haven't given up yet. one of these days

i'll learn the waltz everybody else knows by heart,

i'll make friends as easily as breathing, i'll talk with

them and laugh with them and maybe i'll even learn

to cry with them.

but she'll always be there, if i don't

finally get the hang of talking. even if

my friends leave me by the roadside with

all my worldly possessions wrapped up

in a spotted handkerchief. my friend

will be there when i need her. 

she doesn't always understand me,

but i have my other friends for that.

sometimes

i just need somebody

who also loves the night 

to sit next to me and just be there - 

sometimes

i'm just as fragile

as my friend;

saying my name will

shatter me.

in those moments, my friend understands

me perfectly. in those moments, frankly speaking, 

i prefer the

silence.