Poetry

I miss little things. Like the brown carpet of my old Bedroom. And the pink roof of my Two foot bookshelf. My carpet is grey now. I miss sunshine. Or, rather, what sunshine Used to do to me. I can’t remember, but it was nice. Now I get burnt, and I peel. I miss saltwater sandals. Slapping around On the concrete like I owned the world. I miss cereal. And my grandma’s front yard And my own skin and my old enemies. I miss not feeling regret. No. I do not. I regret not ever feeli

Autumnal bliss is slowly waning. while Time was my first embrace of true love, it was a cruel one at that. one that was gone as soon as it was felt. such anger fills my soul, that Time deceived me. how callous of such a thing to let the bliss subside so swiftly. the auburn leaves decay with such haste, the hue of my hair faded gray, my humor erased. such is the nature of parabolic Time in its cruel but tonic array. it is the yearning for more Time that renders one small, a gr