Her

In Bloom

It's that time of the year again; when the weather is gloomy and flowers are just beginning to bloom. The rain comes down; easily filling buckets. I find myself oddly filled with joy as the sky grows darker and more ominous. The louder the claps of thunder become the more the smile on my face grows. 

Weather changes moods

Spring is here again

Everyone around me seems to frown as the streets flood, but I can't seem to wipe this smile from my face. I find it funny how the weather can always seems to match how one truly feels inside. Although I may paint a smile on every day I only do so to hide my feelings from those around me. As much as I would like to deny it I knew years ago that my face was an open book. I worked as hard as I could to erase the person I once was, and now I'm here. I became an artist just so I could paint a fake smile on my lips day in and day out. But even so the true feeling still lingers deep within my heart. I pull the ear buds out from my pocket and plug them into my phone hoping to drown out the world around me. 

He's the one

Who likes all the pretty songs

And he likes to sing along

The music always seems to help me forget the pain that has built up throughout the day. It takes a match to the shit that has piled up in my head. It helps me ignore the people in the halls that I see whisper about me. They point and laugh at something that I will never hear and never plan to know.

But he knows not what it means

Knows not what it means

I close my eyes as I take my lunch over to my usual table in the corner. I frown when I see that the rain has stopped and the sun has begun to peak through. Before long I am joined by one of my few "friends"; Clint. As soon as he sits down though he gives me an odd look, and I notice that he's staring at my arm. When I look down I notice that I have a large brown mark on my arm that around the edges is starting to darken up already. I quickly grab my sweatshirt and throw it on, and before he has a chance to speak a word about it I blast my music. Of course she left a mark; she always does.

Nature is a whore

Bruises on the fruit

Tender age in bloom