Heya! Welcome to my file cabinet of shitty poems and hopefully less shitty writing! I was going to throw these into a pit in Mystery Meat National Park (not to be confused with Mystery Flesh Pit National Park), but I think you could make better use of them. I won't tell anyone what any of it means. That's for you to decide.

I wish I knew you
Blue grass startled by our sleepy footfalls
Parted emerald snakes by midnight silouettes,
Our forms make holes inside the ground now.
The sky still holds deep ocean hues in its arms,
wrapping around the world inside my head
I try to reach out, squeeze this mirage in my embrace
because maybe somehow if I seize it now.
Then I won't have to count sheep to see you again.
A chubby windmill sits alongside the riverbank.
blades rocking, cradling the dry breeze.
I could spill out, purple guts and all, and know you wouldn't flinch.
And what a wonderful sensation that is.
Little white gaps fill this above-head.
I try to cup one in my palms
so I can give it to you,
whoever you are.
For I lay on my side and gaze at saturn in your eyes
and they do not belong to anyone at all.

It matters
Everything that is real
the child of beauty and anger and comfort
It matters. A lot. You can choose to believe that or not.
Watch sunsets, make rain out of puddles.
Feel tickling buttercups on your skin.
Please never stop making things.
Please never stop being yourself.
Please know that there is hope.
Please know that we will make it out of here.

I saw it.
sleepy saturday mornings are when its clearest to me
felt its whitewashed walls bubbling in my chest, burning my insides, melting in the bed.
I put my hands to my chest and I think I am there for a second. Though shortly it slips as I wake. Slips away. Slips farther. Till it is gone until I can see it again. And who knows when will be the last time. Maybe this was the last time.
My old house. The one I knew for so long. An old friend to whom I've forgetten the name. What was my old home's name?
Of which the smooth floorboards are floating into the white nothing of time.
It's all just shapes now. The fishbowl, the sink with the warmth spilling in and casting yellow squares.
The tall, pencil tree stretching its limbs, root looking thing it was. Where'd it go in the move?
I do not remember how it was laid, Which rooms were real, which were just figments.
The plants crawling up the kitchen.
were they there? I can only watch that version of myself when I travel there.
What corner did my bed sit? I can only see the pink flower lamp latched, laced, on the wall.
Was the bed the same I have now?
Or have I lost that too?
Tell me.
Will I lose everything I am in the unwavering arrow of time?
When will the analog clock that watches in the hall strip me down till I am
nothing that was me ten years ago.
Layer by Layer I feel what it is like to lose
In my dream everything was out of place.
An ugly blue chair, orange wood,
the climbing vines?
My old home doesn't exist anynore. It is someone else's now.
The house that was mine only exists in my mind and in the minds of those who once lived there.
My house is a memory. It is stars. Sparks.
A ungraspable concept that will only grow fainter like a dying planet
Who's universe, too, is slipping away.