Paroxysms of Aneurysms.

Psychological Cataclysms.

Mind is racing, what a Schism.

Marred Mental Mannerisms.

Subliminal Narcissism, made from Cynicisms.

Absurdisms to Pacifism, the head writhing with Symptoms.

My consciousness; a messy Disposition.

I am wrong, in no Position to talk about these random Visions.

Paroxysms of Aneurysms.

All I see is blurred Superstitions.

All I want is some Optimism.

Autism is my Prison.

Spring.

The season filled with pure sunshine and days in the shade.

A time of play for children of young ages.

Bright colors spread across the fields.

The fresh scent of flowers around you.

Beauty in the air.

Let out of school, eager to face the fresh wind.

Green fields, stretching out for miles.

Long car rides with your head out the window.

Dreaming of summer right around the corner.

Hours on the trampoline,

Jumping til you fall, giggling with your friends.

Feeling free.

Spring.

The liveliest of seasons.

The blue waves crashed onto the white sand

The flock of birds flew over the land

The salty air swiveled through the breeze

The beach is a place that will really please

While the hot sunshine bronzes your skin

The smell of flowers in the air,

never leading to despair.

Vivid red,

bright yellow.

In my head,

not hard to follow.

A path of daisies,

their smell quite hazy

floating in the spring

air we breathe.

Purple pansies

and coaxing carnations.

Green stems

of natural gems.

But no flower

in the world

would ever glower

at someone

as beautiful as you.

Look up at the sky

There are birds flying high

They go West and East

To find some peace

Stopping every time to have a rest.

Wistful gray clouds rule over kingdoms of grass and trees

Silver undertones blend to white, expanding amongst the skies

Shadows dim as light gradually fades away

Children abandon play for fear of the rain

They hum mournful songs, demanding the leaves to waltz the waltz

Clouds begin to grin as the atmosphere stills

Too bitter for the sun and too glad for the storms

It’s alright, clouds are used to being alone

Clouds study the empty world beneath, all seem to ignore

Always overlooked, the clouds are, never once been praised

They always take things to heart

Thus, the downpour of tears begins

It’s a lot – the brain waves of clever never seem to infect me, I wish. But it’s fine. I’ll manage; I always have. So how could this be any different? In and out, blurred to clear, my eyes flash. Sweat clumps my forehead; it beads and breaks, drawing a shiny line before collapsing to the uneven, not-sandy-enough sand. The gritty powder furs the backs of my thighs. Brushing in and out of my cracked lips, the air is. My eyelids keep enduring the rays to shield my susceptible eyes. I am still here, on my back; the sand is still supporting my head, and my arms remain laying extended, my eyelids shut. The heels of my feet dig, straining my knees.

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