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Nothing About Autumn.

This is WrittenInBlood88.

I write poems,

So I guess you could call me a poet.

I've written about sleepless nights,

And the life cycle of a banana.

The bitter-sweetener that is mutual silence,

And love poem after love poem as if possessed.

Yeah, I write poetry,

So I guess you should call me a poet.

I've written about familial conflict,

And about betrayal and revenge.

Poems that have no actual meaning,

And those that have no rhyme or reason.

I have no preference between free-verse,

Or the classic “roses are red, violets are blue...” rhyme.

How could I?

When I've written stanzas getting into the similarities between depression and boredom.

About how lonely I am,

And how much I just wish for someone to get into my head.

There are poems about darkness eating me from the inside.

Even darker poems about blood and suicide.

An incomplete one about the hospital,

One about death that morphed into a totally different thing.

Love gone wrong,

As well as not being worthy.

I have this poem I'm working on converting into a novel,

But it's slow coming and going.

The one about teeth never came to be,

And I'll probably never attempt that again.

I've written twin poems,

And a poem inspired by the Thesaurus.

My little sister has a poem inspired in her image.

A New Years poem came to fruition New Years Eve,

And a book poem could be mistaken for one about boys.

Writing poetry has only just recently become an outlet for my emotions,

And now I write poems about being forgotten

And bullied.

About trying not to cry,

Even when I want to really bad.

My newest poem is about how my life is just above depressing,

And if you were to read one written in the last three years,

You'll get fights between my siblings,

How much life sucks,

My endless supply of boredom,

And how some things are facts of life.

My point is,

I have poems on the subject of a lot of things,

So many, I probably didn't point them all out.

I've written a poem about watching the traffic from my driveway,

Comparing it to bird watching.

I have a poem about chocolate,

And several on snow.

Why then,

Don't I have one about Autumn?

I enjoy the Winter,

It being my birthday season and not sweating twenty-four.

Summer would be next with the carefree feeling that permeates the air,

During that time.

But Spring beats it for the fresh smells and drastic scenery change.

Autumn though...

That's my favorite season by far.

The way it looks shames Spring,

And the way it feels shames all three other seasons.

It has the perfect temperature,

That's not too high and not too low.

There's a urgency that's hard to describe,

Hinting at the upcoming Holidays,

But there's also a calm that keeps you from being on edge like Winter.

I've written poems about not giving up,

None about Autumn.

I've written poems about senselessness,

None about Autumn.

I've written poems about obsessions,

And pain,

And storms,

And losing everything.

About cheating,

And being homeless,

And having tough skin.

About my family,

And anger,

And orphans,

About nothing in particular.

But none about Autumn.

I guess this could be that poem.

A.N.-The idea for this poem came to me while I was brushing my teeth, and I suddenly realized I have never written a poem about Autumn, which is truly my favorite season.  Anyway, hope you enjoyed this and that you'll bless me with your reads once again.