Submissions by Spyda

Mother Nature, make up your goddamn mind.
If even the seasons don’t know who they want to be, then how should I?
I want the streets to be painted with leaves,
because the trees are all that’s left for me;
or the snow to fall so hard that I can barely breathe.
And I’ll let the seasons kill me.

White suburban basements
full of kids pretending
wishing
that they’d had just a little less
surrounded by more of the same.

Lukewarm coffee
white-hot dreams
but
frozen ambition.

Somewhere on the other side of
happiness,
polar opposites
wishing they’d had just a little more
surrounded by more of the same.

Transparent dreams but
hard workers
and coffee
still lukewarm.

Genius must lie
drunk, somewhere
in between.