Young and Gone

I feel a strange, dusty sort of emptiness inside me.

To be a chocolate easter bunny,
With a thin layer
Of poor quality effort
To be sweet and desired.

The void exists between my ribs
Instead of breathing lungs and a
beating heart and veins of life and
A fury monster disguised as a fragrant flower
Bursting through the soil of my skin,
Bursting through
To live,
And be coloured with the grumbling, trembling, bumbling delicacies of
A changing soul.

I am void. I am hollow. I am young.



It was the night. The Sun sets on a day, (an eternity) that held hardship and difficulty and irrevocable actions. The stars come out and the nebula come to life as you set your head on the plush pillow, your head filled to the rim with naive hope. Tomorrow you’ll take steps to be better, you yawn, as the Moon watches over your dosing mind with simpering pity.
The next moment your eyes flit open, and once again the glorious, arrogant Sun rises above the jagged horizon. Light dazzles the pale opaque sky, and it fills you with the flimsy knowledge that darkness has come to an end, unknowing that night must always return for a new day to rise more beautiful than before.