Typewriter

No mistakes
Only blue oceans and red fire trucks.
I want to love and to love you back, but that’s a mistake.
That’s a foggy summer day and a question mark on a declarative sentence and that sentence is
something will go wrong
I’m afraid I’ll never find owls at night and doves in the morning because
lately it’s only been fish and dry land
when everyone else
found the water. I’m not
the field of flowers for your orchids, I’m the aquarium.
I spell numbers, not letters, and they’re not adding up right.
Wrong turns get me where I need to be, and I’m the
lighting to your
calm.
The path less traveled is well worn
and I make empty, pretty words
that meant the truth
of the matter is that
nothing is the matter because everything is wrong.
I draw my motorcycles with four wheels because I want to
get there faster and my planes with no wings because
I don’t know where I’m going.
A forest full of trees? I’m a forest full of grass because
it’s the little things in life.
I’m the bright blue sun
the drop in your faucet
an ocean full of orange
and a past of mistakes
that pave the way back the to future
and forward to the dawn.

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(I know this is poetry but I can’t tag poetry so I’m double dipping, wee)

She changes nail polish like she changes
lanes and likes to look for
trapdoors in ordinary objects.

Timeframes of events bother her and
framerate could never be enough
because she just wanted things to start
and continue forever
because stopping scared her
impaired her from believing,
deceiving her into grieving for things that don’t go on and on.

Things always come to an end and that made her feel like the clouds were bright gray even if the night sky was shining
refining her reality with a brutality of the truth, the truth
there is an end to youth
the overwhelming proof
being that sunsets always happen.