Never-Ending Song

Torrential downpour trickles out to nothing.
Nothing but echoing whispers of raindrops.
Raindrops that plink in sorrowful melodies.
Melodies that just twirl and swirl like a top.

A top still in motion never meeting an end.
An end to its song forever stuck on repeat.
Repeating this timeless tune of insanity.
Insanity like liquid glass left on the street.

Streets racked with sobs without any tears.
Tears that left the sky melodiously empty.
Empty of hope, happiness, just everything.
Everything of the song of who I used to be.

To be who I’ve wished to be is impossible.
So impossible became the name of this song.
This song that comes when the rain stops.
When the rain stops and it all goes wrong.

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Roses Aren’t Red

Roses aren’t red,
violets aren’t blue.
My world is twisted,
gone completely askew.

Stars aren’t yellow,
and grass isn’t green.
My world is like this
‘cause of what I’ve seen.

Lilacs aren’t lavender,
daisies aren’t white,
I only see monochrome
in this blinding light.

In my twisted world
nothing is normal.
Weird things happen,
but it’s not paranormal.

Roses are withered,
violets are dead,
stars don’t shine,
grass heavy as lead,

daisies all broken,
lilacs all snapped,
This is my world,
now that I’m trapped.

Wordless Echo

Once people called my name
and I’d always try to say ‘hello’,
but I could only reply in kind:
Echo… echo…… echo………

I’ve gone almost everywhere
trying to make another sound,
but learned that it’s impossible
for in repetition I am bound.

I can never exchange words,
for I don’t have any of my own.
My existence fades in and out;
I don’t exist when I’m alone.

I’ll never have my own identity,
or even make a single friend.
I’m just a fading reflection
from beginning to the end.

Now when people call my name,
I don’t bother trying to say ‘hello’.
For I’m the cursed and forever lonely
Echo… echo……echo….

Autumn Leaves

A vibrant green fades to yellow
and withers to an orange crisp.
A small lit candle that stands alone,
Giving way to translucent wisps.

A leaf desperately clings to a branch,
only to fall down to the ground.
A little light almost flickers out,
nearly gone without a sound.

And so it leaves in crimson warmth,
when delicate leaves wilt to brown.
A flame struggling against the wind,
while in cold ink wax it drowns.