It was this
It was that
It was those
It was things
It was there
It was thrills
It was throbs
It was more than
It was thankful
It was thoughtful
It was theoretic
It was theatrical
It was thirsty
It was thawed
It was thwarted
It was thievery
It was threadbare
It was threats
It was thrown
It was through
It was then
And I am alone



She colors a picture with her worn crayons
Using cerulean for the sky
Mountain meadow for the grass
It undulates under the press of her hand
This depiction of another place
One where she is noticed
That other dwelling where the mother
She is smiling and beckons
Allows her to crawl up on her enveloping lap
And sings the praises of her creations
Then sends her to her room with cookies
And a warm glass of milk
The mountains here are burnt sienna
As the sun hits them with
A temperate warmth
The water that laps at their edge
Is caribbean green
And the fish are teal blue
This pastel scene makes her sigh
This illusion it makes her unbearably happy
To finish this work of art
Brings melancholy
For she knows that with the completion
She will again be left with this
A colorless world
Where the crayons are normal
Plain old blue, green, orange, and brown
And devoid of the complexion
Of her trusty box of

To See

The day I experimented with the ability to see
It was like any other
The hands of the clock moved ever forward
Proving time was slipping
I removed the glasses I was told I needed
I rubbed my eyes in irritation
Closed them for a bit to entertain the idea
That upon opening it would happen
It did not
This attempt to view the world uncluttered
To look about with abandon
This was only a miscarriage of endeavors
To exist as more than a moment
No longer a sum of the parts that make up
That which I deemed the now
I encountered a temporal plane of despair
Baggage left behind by others
Half packed luggage full of sorrow and tears
It is ill-advised to fold anything
These garments that cover others with guilt
They look tattered and ancient
I can easily discern the authenticity
Of these banal sneakers
If I were to don them and attempt to run
I am sure I would fall
Scraping my hands on the jagged pieces
Of my broken heart
My attempt to see was futile, trite
I have resolved the terminal legitimacy
It is consummately better to be blind
Than to see


This alabaster scape blinds me
Renders my eyes ineffectual
My pace is sluggish as the icy flurry
It encompasses my being and creates a reality where there is only me
And the clamor of my ruminations
This ideation of amorous passions leaving a memorialized view of what was
And a taste of bitter contrition in this mouth that once uttered discourses
That this fatuous woman conceived to be truth
This wintry world
It numbs me
And congeals your name on my lips
So that it is able to tumble to the ground where it is camouflaged by the snow
Lost to me
And I do not recall how it used to sound when I whispered it in your ear
I cry glacial tears
As I endeavor to make a snow angel
Knowing that this frozen terrain will soon soothe me to sleep
Where I wish with all my might
That I shall not dream


The force of you
It rendered me useless
Incapacitated and wondering
If your puissance was indeed you
Or some otherworldly malaise
Infecting my bloodstream
With your malevolent contagion
I shall attempt to inoculate my veins
Replace your corruption with luminosity
This needle will pierce my skin
The plunger pushed vehemently
It will leave a bruise
To remind me of your gift
Of necrotic affection