blackberry roads

it smells just like blackberries on the highway

smoke and daydreams

mental breakdowns in the backseat

staring out the window

you watch the world go by until you start to get dizzy

you watch the world go by until you don’t know what you’re doing

yeah you’re fifteen, and you’re confused

so you’re reading all the books you can find

pray to god you can pay off the overdue fines

you stand there, and you watch from the sidelines

work on your note-taking skills

you are cynical and dreaming

black-eyed and bruised

and sometimes you cry like a baby

when you lose your keys

or check the news

i write my poems in second person

‘cause i can’t stand to see myself in you


I’ve been getting a lot better at guitar, and I can totally imagine this as a spoken word track–with some guitar in the background, and an old-timey vintage feel to it? I don’t know–I wanted to write a piece that encapsulated my summer, and this ended up being it.

Lorna

horizon

this morning, i drank coffee, and watched the rain fall outside, crushed by the weight of my own ignorance. but i bet someday, i’ll miss it, as i pick and choose through a brand new set of rose-coloured lenses.

but right now, i’m just trying my best not to think about irreversible damage, or moral gray areas, or the rising tide. right now, i’m gonna try my best to be kind, and soft. melt my armour like candle wax, inch by inch. i’m good at that–always knew how to compartmentalize.

so why does the smell of smoke make me want to cry? why do i do this to myself? is there actually a meaning to life? and how come times goes by this quickly, each agonizing second dripping down the clock?

marked by heaps of dishes in the sink, deadlines and homework assignments and sunshine days frying my mind to a crisp, twisting in my skull and driving the point home. again, again, again. like an overplayed song on the radio. but i can’t live without it, can’t make it stop, so i guess i’ll just have to settle for putting my hands over my mouth.

the horizon burns my vision, cotton-ball clouds brushing against my forehead. it’s so fucking delicate. ready to be remade at the flip of a coin. tell me you think about that too, sometimes.