The Grove

Neither the tree nor the swing are very impressive.
Together,
they lay in the midst of an unimpressive grove–
full of trees that are quite common.
To call the water-filled indent in the ground a pond
seems like a terrible overstatement,
despite the fact that it was indeed full of life.
Well–not quite full,
but definitely populated.
The grove is home to several generic species of fish, frog, and fowl–
all of which exist peacefully and without fear of strife.
Even the grass managed to appear plain,
nondescript and void of any possible distinctions.
Every so often it rains on the small grove,
refilling the pond and providing water for the grass and trees.
It never floods,
but there was always a sufficient amount of water to maintain its size.
With the rain would come wind,
scouring the leaves from the trees and depositing them
in a dizzying array of spirals and spins.
Towards the center of the grove hangs the swing.
With a wooden plank for the seat and ropes holding it aloft,
it’s quite ordinary and typical of such a space.
How the swing got there is a mystery that remains unsolved–
but who really cares?
After all,
neither the tree nor the swing are very impressive.
-ZCS

Image: “Forest Pond” via Devinart by Mosredna

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Kill // Switch

My brain needs a kill switch–
because otherwise I ramble on and on–
and on and on and on–
until it’s four in the morning–
and I can’t open my eyes–
out of pure exhaustion–
but the cogs and gears–
in my disillusioned mind–
keep whistling and spinning–
until eventually something shrieks to a halt–
and all hell breaks loose–
behind my very eyelids–
with me as it’s only witness–
who no longer has any control–
of the pandemonium that’s ensuing–
and it’s keeping me awake longer–
and longer and longer–
until it’s darker inside my mind–
than outside in the dead of night–
where all the bad things lurk–
but all the best things play–
and all the things worth seeing–
hide from those unworthy of seeing them–
and you hide there because I’m not worthy–
but nobody ever will be–
no matter how hard they try–
with gifts and compliments and kisses–
because they’re useless–
like bandaids for a broken heart–
and the only thing you really need–
is a kill switch for your brain–
so we can stop rambling at each other–
which will allow you to think clearly–
and finally love me back.
-ZCS

Image: “Forgotten Songs” by Shiroa via Deviantart

 

Way Back When.

I used to think I’d miss you–
used to think I’d cry when you eventually left.
But that day was yesterday,
and today my heart already feels whole again.
Instead of ripping it in half you fixed it,
healing it with every taken step.
It’s not quite the same as before you,
and only time will tell.
No longer is it brimming with fear and anxiety,
but instead overflowing with a mix of joy and happy relief.
As I sit here without a single tear left to shed,
you’re the only thing that’s changed.
I used to think what we had was love–
Used to believe that you were the only one for me.
But that all ended yesterday,
When my open eyes could finally see.
I’d like to say I’ll remember our time fondly–
But that’s not even a half truth.
Photographs that were once bustling with life and color
sit crammed in a single dresser drawer,
stone cold and void of love
that we were once convinced we shared.
You were my first and my only,
but you certainly won’t be my last.
-ZCS

Image: “Wall” via Deviantart by Amendoins

Death of a Writer

For the first time in several years,
I tore out a piece of my writing from a notebook,
crumpled it into a misshapen ball,
and tossed the disfigured wad into my kitchen garbage can.
I’m a word hoarder–
collecting and keeping every word I write
in the hopes that one day those words will
mean something to someone other than me.
Except… not these words.

After finishing my piece and setting down my pen
I began to read–
only to quickly realize that these were not
words I would ever desire to take credit for,
let alone share with the world.
Because these words…
they were so full of hate, anger, suffocating greed,
and misery that tore at my soul in a way that I couldn’t understand.
I guess it’s time I stop trying to write about the news.

-ZCS

**Image: “Daily News” via Deviantart by Vangelis

I Love The Way

I love the way the pen glides across paper
as I scrawl my deepest thoughts
across a crumpled notebook page.

I love the way you smile
and giggle when you smooth out the paper,
reading it over slowly in your head.

I love the way your brow creases
as you process
every simple syllable.

I love the way that your lips
seductively trace each word on the page,
revelling in every messily scribbled line.

I love the way you look at me,
and finally realize that all this time–
I’ve been writing about you.

-ZCS

**Image: “Love Winter” via Deviantart Kara Z. Kerstena

Spirits

I have laid sleepless for a hundred nights,
with open eyes that do not see
and a mind that travels far beyond our understanding.
Dreams don’t exist in this state–
neither do emotions.
Colors fly past my mind faster than the speed of sound
if sound was on speed
and tasted like oranges.
I can’t explain the taste,
much like I can’t explain where I am
as my mind travels.
Or who I am,
really.
There’s no cognition–
just sight and sound.
I can feel myself existing in a thousand different places at once,
except for the place I’m at now.
Instead,
I’m forced to watch myself from Outside.
My physical being is a caged animal,
trapped inside plexiglass walls by a force that it doesn’t see
and will never truly understand.
Consciousness ebbs and flows in waves–
much like time,
but less constricted or restrained.
Sometimes I Remember,
and other times I cannot–
who I am and what I am meant to be.
-ZCS

**Image: “Eternal Salvation” via Deviantart by Kat Da Silva

Window Pains.

Broken light pours through the already
shattered church window, sporadically casting an array of
distorted colors onto the family that society forgot–
ruined, sitting in the sinful silence of the 3rd row in the
empty church and wearing beaten up clothing scrounged up from anywhere and everywhere.

Broken hearts–living in an apocalyptic world full of
shattered homes with a
distorted sense of right and wrong because society
ruined them and the only thing they feel is
empty.

Broken shards of glass flew everywhere as sharp shrapnel
shattered the last remaining stained window of the church, sending
distorted reflections of ravens scattering from the rafters as they flew out into the
ruined city and the
empty midnight air.

Broken was the evening sky, as gunshots
shattered the stillness of night and
distorted the cries of the people, as lives were
ruined and the church was suddenly 
empty.

-ZCS

**”Christ Church Window 03″ by Stephanie via Deviantart