A poem I just wrote at midnight...on my 18th birthday.

"The Clouds"
--
Continuous cycles of time that circle, circle like never-ending wheels and giant purple waves and falsely happy clouds; we can never stop. It's harder pretending to walk on top of billowing flesh and cottony sinew when every foot is planted firmly on the ground with impatient severity. Like weevils among giants, we tread over ancient waters and delicate infrastructures of communication. Only our hands can tell the difference -- they appear so soft and gentle, flumed together in waves of orange cream, but our hands, our hands can see only emptiness.