There is something in autumn that is native to my blood—
Touch of manner, hint of mood;
And my heart is like a rhyme,
With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time.
The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry
Of bugles going by.
And my lonely spirit thrills
To see frosty asters like smoke upon the hills.
There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir;
We must rise and follow her,
When from every hill of flame
She calls each vagabond by name.
it seems like crying as
it turns my birthday is
becoming a habit that is
so very hard to quit
i hate how i always
notice my mother’s sharp
inhale as my father jokes
rotten strawberries smell
this idyllic family
dinner left the
exact same taste
in my fragile mouth
In a room, full of smoke perfume,
the sediment of sentiment sits at
the bottom of a wine-stained glass.
For company, an upset chair,
a worn-out sofa, and the sound of
someone moving around upstairs.