Basement.

have you ever heard the sound of rushing pain?
the type that fills you with a flashing flame.
into the distance deep.
cradling your head ache fast asleep.
and the ones who feel nothing
mock those who feel everything.
we are our own mirrors.
yet we can't see any clearer.

collapse.

beneath all of the colors i can't see is the truth
lying somewhat helplessly.
wanting nothing.
and the only identifiable feeling is blue.
and everything is rubble
and gray.
nondescript bruises and scars.
car-crash panic.
why is it you're worth it-
whoever you are.
(the winter just keeps going, and going. turning into one long nightmare of white and one long breath of solid, icy air.)

here is your new year.

hold me together with glue- 

I will be your paper mache. 

your collage of sorts. 

the truth is everything falls in, 

when you least expect it to. 

there is no forcing, there is nothing to be forced. 

and in this fog I am an infinite wealth of ideas. 

and in the sun I am whatever I see. 

to believe it all went this fast 

is to dwell in the past. 

And I still have the future to wake up to.