I know a girl, or perhaps a boy--
Whatever she identifies as.
She's kind in smile,
Few in words,
And lost in the depths of her other World.
She worries me so,
And that same, unmistakable,
Heat-wrenching fear of losing her to
The night, the shadows, creeping up upon
My consciousness, her consciousness...
(Perhaps it is just the way I was raised.)
Such things as these
Turn the soft shades of pink in my
To a white piece of paper, white, dreary screen,
Empty diary pages,
And black, definite letters.
(Perhaps it is just
My distaste this air,
Now, I know
That such things are as sharp
As the knives of demons with their pitch-fork eyes,
As the harsh calls of children spewing their parents' lies,
As the thrust of a virgin away from goodness' spies,
As the words that I rave to myself
None of the above matters when you're getting high,
It looks, and it seems like nothing;
But it bothers me.
It makes me write crap when I should be doing homework;
Because my fear for the future
Is as the negative-negative
Repel of a magnet.
And I dislike it so.