Summer is starting.
You will fade like a season,
Leaving no harvest.
(Source: hydeandsneak)
Smashed Glass
Insensitive rays
Pierce a prism,
Bounce off, glare.
Panes, in pieces,
Dream dances on
An inverted floor.
Retired, every one
Of them, but
Fanciful as ever.
Sharper now, since
Wisdom grows as old
Age heralds tragedy.
Now a thousand
Brilliant Elders lie
Dying on the ground,
And, clutching that
Unholy vehicle,
Wooden and corked, their
Adolescent murderer
Escapes. Fool’s errand
He runs, seeking
Sanctuary, but
Trees make poor parley-
Grounds.The weapon
(His Judas) remains,
A crimson-stitched orb
Counting its victims
Like silver—Shattered
Old ones who the young
Could not resist.
(Source: hydeandsneak)
Death Row
2 months, says every clock I see.
They gulp down hours and days—
2 months. That’s all we have together.
You chime in with the cuckoo,
Echoing its hollow cry:
2 months, you claim, and we’ll go our separate ways.
No, no, no, no. It can’t be. I know you’re wrong.
Why don’t your hands linger on my palms?
Instead you let them slip like sand through my fingertips
And join the hourglass whose avalanche roars 2 months!
2 months, you say. 2 months is all we have.
I refuse to believe it. I check my watch—
2 months, it peeps, none too-feebly.
2 months … and what, darling, happens then?
Friends we’ll stay, but kiss love goodbye.
Well fie on that. I love, I love, I love—2 months and more!
You can’t choose when to execute my love.
(Source: hydenandsneak)
I cry for one thing.
Too often, and for nought else:
That this too shall pass
(Source: hydeandsneak)
Love In Eight Lessons
One. You taught me to take joy in other people. You taught me to be bitter when they did not do the same.
Two. You taught me that life is a game. You made me believe I could beat anyone.
Three. You taught me that perseverance is worthwhile. Then you learned that it never gets better.
Four. You taught me to forgive, because betrayal is inevitable. You proved yourself right.
Five. You taught me that naïveté is dangerous by gunning me down.
Six. You taught me that love is trust; you said you didn’t trust me.
Seven. You taught me that time is money by emptying my proverbial wallet.
Eight. You taught me to give up because, sometimes, giving up is worth it.
(Source: hydeandsneak)
Don’t—
Don’t come near me;
I love you too dearly.
Don’t you dare touch me;
I’ll want you completely.
Don’t think for a minute I’m falling for you—
That’s what I’ve done, I’m doing, and continue to do.
Don’t say that you’re leaving;
I’ll go numb with insanity.
Don’t claim it’s the best thing
To choose not to brand me.
Don’t “give us space” and leave me alone
But if you do, tell me you’ll come visit home.
(Source: hydeandsneak)
Fuming
I burned down a house today. I just wanted to see what fire looks like when it’s mad since the only fires I ever see are cheerful things you cook marshmallows over while they keep you company and make you feel better. Well what happens when fire is angry? Is it different from what happens when people are angry? I think it is the same. People get angry and they explode. They go bright red and roar and roar and roar like hungry yellow lions. They fume heatedly about whatever bothers them, raging on and on until suddenly they have to stop because they’re out of things to be angry about and now what are they supposed to say when there’s nothing fitting to say? How do you rationalize incinerating a building? How do you apologize for blowing it sky-high with too many sticks of dynamite, especially when it was all too little to begin with? Well I know how I explain all that. I’ve never seen a toothpick house burn angrily.
(Source: hydeandsneak)
Like time through my fingers
With this broken hourglass in my hand
I’m begging for more time.
Just pour in a little more sand—
We can make it work.
The cracked glass still holds together alright.
“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t …” you tell me.
Why do you worry about shattered glass lacerating my palms?
I’m clenching this clock on purpose, you know.
I pour in a little more sand.
We can make it work.
(Source: hydeandsneak)
Recently I realized that hiding a problem in order to seem better is virtually pointless. If society is so crippling to us that I cannot say “Yeah, I’m flawed” without being seen as an inferior human being, then I don’t want to be a part of it. People are messed up. That’s what makes them people. And people—you know, the messed up ones, the ones who aren’t afraid to share the things closest to their hearts—they are what change this world.
