I walk down a rainbow road,

a path that's not quite straight;

I put a heel in front of my toes, and I reflect

on all the memories I can collect.

memories of times long past, 

times that seem to have gone so fast.

Times of joy, times of fear

times spent with those I hold most dear.

Right beside me on the rainbow road,

Is the space where you would be

if you had chosen, long ago,

to sit back down, next to me.

C.Wagner

synesthesia is the blending of the senses, as told by my therapist

i told him it felt more like a collision, a crash, a head on car wreck 

this is beautiful this is bold this is material this is gold

my synesthesia is not like yours not like the 70,000 others who claim to live with my burden not like the 61 different types you can conjure up from web.md

my synesthesia is not AFI’s interpretation, these colors are not a love song

my synesthesia is not 1 + 1 = blue, these numbers are not a love story

my synesthesia is not a mango shaped space, these headaches are not a hole in a wall shaped like an old friend

my synesthesia is recognizing the scent of an old brand of shampoo and being transported to my darkest hour

my synesthesia is sensory overload

my synesthesia is a c-minus in math

my synesthesia is finding my first love because her name was the same color as mine and i felt like that meant something ethereal

my synesthesia is 1963 it is ad reinhardt painting a large canvas solid black because it’s simply much easier to take in

my synesthesia is minimalism and it is on display at moma 

Pushing away your friends

Admitting there is no hope

Imagining a better life

Never-ending guilty world

By M.Canfield

Roses are dead.
Violets are dead.
Everything is dead.

I’m in a flipping desert.

Children like us have no chance

We were eaten by the demons in ourselves

We were pushed and pushed into this state

Until we retreat into our own private hell

We cry for the hope that someone will hear

We stay quiet hoping someone will listen

We hurt ourselves; we want attention

But we push away for our fears

It starts with a kid

It ends with a grave and the guilt in your eyes

You know it’s your fault for this ending in us

We children will never have a chance.

By M. Canfield

To give poetic justice

to meek and ever poor

To give poetic justice

make fights worth fighting for.

 

To use poetic justice

Fight our battles with pen, not sword,

we’ll fight with words, on battlefronts,

And books shall be our wars.

 

To write the wrongs worth righting

and to make the fights worth fighting,

To bring heavens down in single stroke,

Or make heroes of common folk.

 

In darkness, to be the light,

To outlast, outwit, and outscore

To be the better man, out of spite,

That’s what Poetic Justice is for.

I see so little of you as late
I wish I could help but hate
The silence grown between us.

Naught but smiles; our first date

I thought that it must be fate
Then icy cold spread between us.

I thought it may be best to wait,

Thought it best to let this pass straight
By us.

But it did stay, and I did pray

For it to pass us by
But I moved too late,
It must be fate
For there to be nothing at all between us.

Is death an end
or a winding road,
off-shoots and exits few?
Is an end a stop,
or merely a pause,
for things to be born anew?

Dusk kisses his crypt
Black shroud
Grey skin
White roses

Truth in sin