Things I Wrote at One Time or Another

Poem Collection; "2015"

A/N: my edgy poetry from when I was 14.

SMOKING ARSONIST

It's an irony
burning pencils as
if they were cigarettes.
Because they hold
the words that
are taken away
from when we
blow that puff of
s m o k e .

COLOURFUL ME 

Trying to write the words

that hide inside the hallways

of my mind. The labyrinth inside

of me. It's as if I'm trying

to paint with the colours that

the light breaks off.

The hues you never see, those

unknown colours, they're

all me.

INCAPABLE OF EPIPHANIES

Sometimes I cry when

I think about the vastness

I don't know, because

there are things I can't

understand or express.

But you don't know, you

don't understand.

I need to know, because

everything else that everyone

knows isn't capable of

describing the mystery

of my being.

FOR ROME.

Take me to Italy,

where I can bury my bones

beside the ancestors of

a history I'd love to know.

I'll run my fingers along

the debris of creativity and

passion. The ruins of

hatred and royalty will

bow at my feet.

They want to go to the Bahamas,

dance in Hawaii. They smile in

London and sketch in San Francisco.

And even if they do follow me,

they sit at cafés and drink

espresso. All the while

I'm grieving for the moments

I've missed.

Not for the language,

Not for the food,

Not for the beauty—

No. It's all for the words

they left behind, the ones

that whisper in the wind.

If you heard them, you'd

cry too.