A poem I wrote a few months ago, still unedited in all its terrible glory. Why am I uploading this? Because it fits too well for myself and possibly for another. You know, sometimes I hate life, but this poem isn't about death. It's about outgrowing yourself. Which, I just kind of gave away my poem like any amateur.

~~~

The streets are swept with the little drifts of snow and frost
that gasp from one side to the other, always changing their minds
Like the flies that land on your fork or the friends you've left behind
To whom you're the hanged man in their bedroom window sill

No no no no, there isn't much left here for you anymore
And no no no no, those foreign seas aren't so rough
- no- no. It's time to travel along the brittle gales
No no no no no no no, It's time to-

Like the child that forgot his coat you wander the freeze and bite
The streets you knew and owned belong to another this winter
Night and the purple sky will betray your loss and treason to still
The orange lamps that keep you alive and moving on tonight

Under the trees where ice hangs instead of leaves like nails
That leave black ice in your hair and eyes and frost your lips
Pass the empty signs of hotels and restaurants that night
Filled with other friends with silk around their necks

You live out of a suitcase at home and spin away
Like a top out of control has gone to far you collapse
Where no fire will reach your paper mache skin
Blue beneath the flaming kois that hide beneath the skin of the frozen pond

No no no no, the cold will wear you down and take its toll
And no no no no, You're already starting to slip
-no -no. down those roads you owned before
no no no no no no no, it's time to

And no no no no, to late, you've already lost
-no -no. Those times were too long ago
no no no no no no no, it's time to
no no no no no no no, it's time to