(no subject)
something that i entered for "patterns", a writing contest for school, got picked to be published. so that was kinda cool to find out. i might even win money! haha, right... umm what else, ohhh, thats right, nothing. sweet huh?
here's the piece that got picked. though i've already posted it before.
constellations
leaves fall like rain as the morning rushes by;
shadows grow long and lazy as
the sun draws heavy in its buoyant broadcast.
it begins to set beyond the far limits of my eyes,
but still seems so reachable.
she dances elegantly through the depleting hours of day,
and straight into the stars.
her hair shimmers and spills in waves of silk
as the night presses on its surface.
and beneath the lamps that line the street’s lane,
her silhouette appears, then reappears,
with each new cone of yellow.
drunken moths aim to mimic her measure,
but their grace is lacking.
stars,
scattered in no particular pattern,
stress their pin points of toneless light
as they jacket the cosmic sky above.
their cold blaze beckons brightly within her eyes.
this must be love - I can feel it in my toes.
I find myself fearing to fall asleep - for this is my finest hour.
the moon’s light seeps in and out of the thinning tree branches -
playing stripes across her face.
I count them with innocent fingers -
thirteen, how unlucky …
the November air spells out her words as she let’s known
how amazingly alive alone can actually feel.
her indifference comes sudden, and without warning.
she is cold.
her callous tone squeezes around me
like the intolerant fingers of a noose
narrowing on a spineless neck.
I long to breathe the air for one last scream,
even though I know it will fall shy of ever being heard.
my eyes shine wet and watch in silence
as a hopeless world awaits my arrival;
her eyes have emptied,
and resemble the same black abyss as above…
seven hours now until a yesterday I’ll never forget.
and I find myself not wanting to wake -
sleep brings a slight release,
but renounces too soon to appreciate.
and these troubles insist on clinging to me
like pointed pins itching to pierce soft skin.
and you once called love a perfect design -
what an atrocious joke to leave someone believing.
seven hour now until a tomorrow that will tell
how my drunken life is lacking -
o how I envy the moths.
they at least still have her attention.
and I am alone
beneath an empty cone of light
as she dances through the depleting hours of night,
and straight out of my life.
by: andrew bush.
here's the piece that got picked. though i've already posted it before.
constellations
leaves fall like rain as the morning rushes by;
shadows grow long and lazy as
the sun draws heavy in its buoyant broadcast.
it begins to set beyond the far limits of my eyes,
but still seems so reachable.
she dances elegantly through the depleting hours of day,
and straight into the stars.
her hair shimmers and spills in waves of silk
as the night presses on its surface.
and beneath the lamps that line the street’s lane,
her silhouette appears, then reappears,
with each new cone of yellow.
drunken moths aim to mimic her measure,
but their grace is lacking.
stars,
scattered in no particular pattern,
stress their pin points of toneless light
as they jacket the cosmic sky above.
their cold blaze beckons brightly within her eyes.
this must be love - I can feel it in my toes.
I find myself fearing to fall asleep - for this is my finest hour.
the moon’s light seeps in and out of the thinning tree branches -
playing stripes across her face.
I count them with innocent fingers -
thirteen, how unlucky …
the November air spells out her words as she let’s known
how amazingly alive alone can actually feel.
her indifference comes sudden, and without warning.
she is cold.
her callous tone squeezes around me
like the intolerant fingers of a noose
narrowing on a spineless neck.
I long to breathe the air for one last scream,
even though I know it will fall shy of ever being heard.
my eyes shine wet and watch in silence
as a hopeless world awaits my arrival;
her eyes have emptied,
and resemble the same black abyss as above…
seven hours now until a yesterday I’ll never forget.
and I find myself not wanting to wake -
sleep brings a slight release,
but renounces too soon to appreciate.
and these troubles insist on clinging to me
like pointed pins itching to pierce soft skin.
and you once called love a perfect design -
what an atrocious joke to leave someone believing.
seven hour now until a tomorrow that will tell
how my drunken life is lacking -
o how I envy the moths.
they at least still have her attention.
and I am alone
beneath an empty cone of light
as she dances through the depleting hours of night,
and straight out of my life.
by: andrew bush.