“They tell me summer is coming, and soon we’ll be dancing on the shore. Waiting for the moonlight to light me up amongst the starlight.”

Reading has always been my sweetest escape, but I write to convey that which I want to escape or what scares me to say, even if it’s something positive.

We’re so distant, words can’t save us.

I lost touch with the world around me – gone unnoticed by that which surrounds me, but I must find the presence of that which grounds me if I am to once again grasp onto everything I lost touch with.

It takes less for me to be impacted, for my state of being to worsen.

You wonder why you didn’t do it sooner – why you didn’t clear your mind when the clouds loomed.

I was never lonely alone because love has come to me in many forms, and one of them was you.

And I saw forever in your eyes ‘til the sunset started to dim your light. You told me you’d always hold me tight, but your warmth faded with the bright.

You are chaos in my heart – clogging up my arteries. I can’t move on or bring in more love than what was at the start

I try to build myself a bridge to cross every time I start to ruminate on my thoughts.

To the songs you haven’t heard from me. To the pains you haven’t felt for me.

There is a warmth that fills the soul when the sun’s rays tend to your skin from up above.

I can assure you that I don’t wake up every day with a smile upon my face, and the distance from happiness in the morning isn’t set at a constant rate.

I escaped the voice of darkness that was as pervasive as the silence that has come to replace all the words you had misplaced.

I’m writing on a blank page full of chances and hope.

I spill words among pages so that I can’t say my thoughts are stuck in cages. Can’t say I didn’t let it out when I can say for sure I wrote it down.

Flowers crown her with thorns, keeping her mind entrapped in a garden of lies – guarding her mind.

Summer was made to give you a taste of what hell is like. Winter was made for landladies to charge high rents and keep cold radiators and make a fortune off of poor tenants.

I live in the imaginary wild and its soft as summer.

Clapping my hands with the echoes the summer moon begins to dawn.

Summer grasses — all that remains of great soldiers’ imperial dreams.

Farewell, my old fan. / Having scribbled on it, / What could I do but tear it / At the end of summer?

A thicket of summer grass / Is all that remains / Of the dreams of ancient warriors.

Summer left me like an almost lover.

That it would always be summer and autumn, and you always courting me, and always thinking as much of me as you have done through the past summertime!