Also, I just wrote a poem. Would anyone like to hear an incredibly depressing and sad poem, or a slightly less depressing and sad poem? Or neither? 

Bitter words spat out like tabacco

Unpleasant

but does that make the one

Speaking them unpleasant too?

Are circumstances, the rich, the parents

To be blamed

For this mess of a world?

They indirectly caused it, though, didn't they?

Should we rise up, angrily protest for our rights

As humans? 

Or will we falter before the goal,

Perhaps be enraged when we ourselves are someday dethroned?

Why does rain fall down,

Pelting those below the heavens?

Perhaps she is simply reuniting

With her long-lost lover, the earth, I reckon

Why does the earth grumble,

Causing those on the surface to suffer? 

Perhaps she is angry, alone and imprisoned 

For no good reason, making her lash out with molten hands

Why does fire choose to spread, charring 

and bringing misery through his reign of terror?

Maybe he's lonely, simply reaching for us to warm us,

But is cursed by the Universe to burn all he loves or touches

Why does wind howl, stripping away out heat,

Seeding fears in our hearts, snuffing fire out in a moment's beat?

Perhaps he is bitter of being left alone,

Forgotten, ignored; unseen and considered danger-prone.

Why does the sun conspire against our planet,

Ripping away our atmosphere and generally being violent?

Well, perhaps the Universe isn't centred around us,

Perhaps it's the repercussion for forgetting about everyone else.

soft music 

coming from 

the old fashioned 

music player 

the whisper 

of ballet flats 

on the floor 

with the peeling tape 

and thin layer 

of glitter, dust, and 

who knows what else 

occasionally 

there's a thump 

coming from the slightly sketchy 

building next door  

or a creak 

that signals someone opening the door 

I wish I could stay here 

forever 

well, maybe not forever

but it's nice here 

in the dance studio 

my little hole-in-the-wall studio 

that feels like a second home 

despite the uneven floor 

or the broken lock on the bathroom door 

or the ceiling that leaked one time 

it's nice here 

because of the smiles and laughs 

and the encouragement from a friend 

and the dancing of course 

it's nice in my little dance studio

even if it isn't perfect there 

Wolf Eyes (the really sad one)

Wolf eyes

Pierce the night

Wolf eyes

Filled with fright.

The hunt is finished, 

The pups are famished.

Everlasting bones, 

On the ground,

From a deer

Eaten last week.

Already, 

The elderly,

Sick, and young,

are dying. 

Bodies,

Empty shells,

Lay on the pine needles,

But not food. 

Mewlings

And howlings

And sorrow

And sorrow

And sorrow

And more

Fill the air 

With a thick fog

And a roar

Of hunger.

Darkness (the slightly less depressing one)

Deep, deep black

Spangled with fiery

White stars

Calls to me

Calls to everyone

Who has the Gift

has the Light

has a Plan.

It calls

All those who 

Know the chains

Of Darkness

And of Deepness

And Emptiness.

The stars call

For Light

And happiness.

The Darkness calls

For defeat of the light.

It calls for the

Soldiers

And the Deep.

The Light-Gifted Children

Have no choice

But to cry out

In pain, 

And it dooms them.

The Darkness finds them,

Finds us,

Finds me.

We are lost

In the Darkness.

sunset orange

poppy red

sunshine yellow

twirl together

blending on canvas.

it used to hang in the living room in our old apartment.

i wonder what she looked like

when she painted it,

eyes alive with shades of reality

only she could understand

or

steely and cold in concentration 

as he paintbrushes

released the color of panic 

onto the blank whiteness.

was it the same determination

as when she woke

long enough to say

"i refuse to die"?

i used to believe that her iron will was enough. 

i used to believe

so

much

more.

but nature claims its prize in the end,

the slavation of the gnarled hand of death

reaches all of us, even me,

even her.

we are all dead, really,

the only difference being

the passing of time.

i wish i had known to say goodbye

I didn't even say goodbye.

the worst part

is the painting,

the one the color of panic,

no longer hangs in our living room.

i don't even know 

where it is.

maybe one day 

i'll pull out the paintbrushes that once belonged to her

from where they now sit, under my dresser,

and find a blank canvas

and maybe my eyes will shine

like hers did

as i release the color of panic,

sunset orange

poppy red

sunshine yellow,

the color of memory,

the color of

love. 

~~~~

None of this is made up. I still have her paintbrushes. I'm scared to use them. Usually I would ask for critique but this is not a poem I wrote for fun. 

Cold hands reach from the abyss

To snare us

Grab us

Drag us to our watery tombs

My stomach lurches

In horror

Broken marbles that are my eyes

No longer filled with young fascination

The world wears hard

On my weary

Soul

I'm in pain

but not enough to snap me awake 

Once filled with beautiful dreams

Now all smashed like glass 

On the floor

Drawing blood and doing no good

But to bothersome to clean up 

Dreams

Dreams you say

I still carry dreams 

Nightmares I wish again and again away

Dreams

Real dreams 

Hope

All things I want to let go of

Perhaps I was

Am

More idealistic than I like to think

But it's gone now 

Finally leaving

Returning to the days

Where I never speak 

Watch blindly

But never speak