Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry, The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

Her shadows are shorter now, seemingly eaten up by the clouds. I know she’s still here on the ground, but the more I search, the more it feels like she doesn’t want to be found.

I pluck away at my feathers

And scatter them to sandy riverbanks.

Some find a home in stray branches

While others fall only to drown.

My hope is that you will see me

Before both of my wings are gone.

I’m giving up my open skies

To walk the same Earth as you.

 

But I am also well aware

That you never sought me out,

That you never glanced at the clouds

And wished to sail amongst them.

I’m giving away my hope,

Betting my everything

That I can survive this fall,

And that you will return to me

A reality better than my dreams.

 

 

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry, The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

“If fate is the reason for my everything, then why am I baring these burdens alone? I never asked this, so why? I just want to know why..” (part 3 of 5)

I want fate to touch

My crowning breath,

To blister in its fever

As it traces crimson

Around naked necks.

It’s a vibrant sensation,

Echoing the shade of dusk

Throughout my bones

Until they are reduced

To Georgia Red Clay.

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry, The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

“I spent the summer wishing for a storm to wash away our spring, but never stopped to think about what comes after the rain.”

I spent my summer melting,

My autumn fearing another fall.

 

The new year was a blanket

Of snow and cumbersome guilt.

 

A spring sun demanded I begin,

But all of my roots were dead,

My branches devoid of green.

 

So I wasted the Suns generosity;

I still received it’s light,

But without the strength to blossom

It just created a gilded shell.

 

And that’s it all there is;

I’m just painted gold,

Paper money in the wind;

I hold no value except for

The values others place on me.

 

So I am buried,

Hiding from any hint of rain

Lest my colors start to bleed.

 

I’m afraid of the smallest storms,

And nothing, not even time,

Can stop me from withering away.