Playfully, Miss Hurd

If all your black and white pictures start to turn brown,

And the pastels of your portraits, they seem blurred,

And all your ships of sanity start to go down,

Won't you swim to me, Miss Hurd?

If your audience gives up their precious hours

To your fantasy so frequently reassured,

While the shadow from backstage has left you flowers,

Won't you see through me, Miss Hurd?

If all of the boys you coerced into thinking

Give you their journals, and their word

That they'll stay out on your porch all night, drinking,

Won't you come near me, Miss Hurd?

If your bitter clones ever dare to kick out your ladder,

While overhead flies a turquoise bird,

And you don't know exactly what is the matter,

Won't you fly to me, Miss Hurd?

If your sunbeams spin and sleep becomes a battle,

In which you dream of a geisha and her nerd,

While the keys to your romance begin to rattle,

Won't you believe me, Miss Hurd?

But if all your cherry blossoms start to turn grey,

And your delicate waters are disturbed,

And the tower that you're locked in starts to give way,

Won't you go sweetly, Miss Hurd?

All The Way Through

I have wasted the best years of my life

standing proudly over all that I've done,

from blanket poems to bottled sunlight.

And I still haven't found the one.

Christmas Time

“Do they know it’s Christmas Time at all?”

We ruined Christmas without firing a single shot.
There were twelve of us sitting at the round wooden table, with the rest of us somewhere beneath, making soft purring sounds and lapping at the air. The oak table was completely bare, spare the four inches of snow. It was our last Christmas Eve together and we had nothing to create.
With all the exhausted spirit of an eight-year old experiencing midnight for the very first time, we took to our feet like newborn giraffes. We had the foolish notion that our antics of the past would pull us through. The speakers, designed to look like rocks, were playing a muffled Christmas song. We plunged into darkness.
We knew we were somewhere we weren’t supposed to be. There are a lot of those places, after all. The hall grew colder as we pressed onwards, giggling at how positively clever and hilarious we were. But a school of fish changes direction at the turn of a head, and someone, don't ask who, broke into a run.
She gave weight to everything, and our talking and touching ceased; everyone quickened their pace through the hall. Propelling ourselves along, our separate bodies felt as one. We were a breathing, vivacious panther jumping from tree to tree; an illustrious jaguar in the moonlight. We had the eyes, the ears, the racing heart, the spring-loaded legs: and the tail, which I regret was myself.
Night guards came running out of their poker shacks. Sirens echoed off the narrow walls, pulsing ruby and jade. Everyone suddenly had a gun, and a permit too. The wailing woke the entire Guard, who came pouring out in snowdrift waves. I wrestled with a petite blond girl garbed in black— until in walked The Big Guy.
Not slim in any sense of the word, The Big Guy walked slowly around the room, eyeing every face smushed against the frosty granite floor.
“Well, look at this motley crew. Tried something you thought you could get away with?”
“No sir, we never thought we could get away with it.”

Sometime later they let us go; everyone scattered about.
I lagged behind. The whole thing was very sad, so with a vague sort of heartbreak I went to see William Carlos Williams— either out of respect for his condition, or a curious desire for his presence. We talked for a while; it was probably the best talk I've ever had. Out of nowhere he handed me a book of poems. I didn’t know if they were his poems or my own from the future, and though they were in a different language, I knew they were exactly what I wanted to write. Someday.
The clock was 1:17 am and no one knew where I was. I stepped out onto the snowy street.
I woke up on Christmas morning standing on the corner, clutching a book of poems I couldn’t read while staring at the sun.

The Listless To-Do List of Kaleb Worst

- Lay down with ice-packs on my face to heal all of the broken blood-vessels.

- Stop pretending to be good at social politics.

- Stop pretending to know what that word means.

- Dig a little deeper into my warm pockets for the bell-ringers.

- Be less hostile toward the ideas of my friend sitting to my right.

- Grab her by the arms and ask her how she is today, this week.

- Apologize.

- Refuse service to anyone, as I have the right.

- Watch the weather every morning and predict the future.

- Buy food not acidic teenage benzedrine.

- Attend class but probably not pay any sort of attention to the textbook stuff, replicated.

- Go to arts classes and pay every sort of attention.

- Quit being hurt.

- Don't let late night hours dwindle to action-strategy venues of super-fun.

- Remember the ducks.

- Turn that idling spider into eight-legged mulch.

- Apologize.

- Think of the road, think of that inexhaustible road.

- Listen more to the feel-good songs of, what, last week?

- Tell it like it is.

- Apologize.

- Find my way out of this groggy, snarky desert of ineptitude.

- Swim through an endless river of paperwork.

- Ask my sister how old she is when I already know the answer.

- Scale the grey facade of the Eco-Lab, to change it up a bit.

- Tear down the black cloud of applications covering the sun.

- Clean my room, all the Cokes, Vanilla, Cherry, Regular; Skittles, Mint Milanos, Saltines; Popcorn and Oatmeal bowls; Coffee mugs a bit untouched; insulted sheets and an overflowing basket of dirty laundry.

- Change my underwear, something a bit more festive.

- Find only the forgiving friends.

- Have only one modest plate at Thanksgiving.

- Apologize.

- Forget Christmas.

- Pray for Easter.

- Maybe find God, if I could get more sleep.

- Kiss someone, unperfect and perfectly nice.

- Apologize.

- Kill A Vicious Square.

- Apologize.

- Come up with something new before I lose my head.

- Keep it a secret, or keep something a secret, keep a secret.

- Un-write everything I wrote that went unnoticed by you.

- Regret, tremendous.

- Cut right to the very quick of my soul, with you there, ruining everything that was pretty much gone to begin with.

- Apologize.

- Pretend I know what every word means because that's all I have, y'know.

- Apologize for being everything.

- Apologize for being arrogant.

- Apologize for all this affection.

- Get a car and several dozen CDs, and go out and find everyone who has nothing to do with this list, pile them in wonderful and insane, collect the dimes for gas, and hit that fervent road, drive out of this grey city, into the browning fields, past the shivering cows and corn, between the drifty gateways of Denver, blast through the breathing desert, hit the bridges of 'Frisco, haunt the northern highway-mountains of California, pick up the Old Man and save him from himself, and skim that silver coast, hear the ocean wail and taste smoke at every cliffside road-stop, until we've hit the end, the end of it all, in that shining Astoria, find the beatest hotel and burrow in those rickety beds, and stay there until I feel like writing again, ever again.

Footnote to The Jailor

I see you there, against the grey sky,

where you were once before,

laughing while the lighthouse gleams.

I'm sure this time you'll stay.

All the ashes of summer

have been dumped into the bay,

and so it might seem

that this was all a dream,

'till all our friends come to our door,

asking for their final goodbye.

From Nine To Eighteen To Ninety-Eight

Elusive ebony-robed storyteller,

climb aboard the mystical 3,

and spin stupid tales of flying friends for me.

We can pretend that it's eight years ago,

and as far as we know, it is,

watching ladies peeling oranges from the

elevated safety of our window.

Let's write a novel, a damn good one, too,

about our reflective years which glimmer

when tilted under the flood lights

of Zachary Park, of South Dakotan fields,

remember walking the slopes of French Park?

Ah, silent friend, that wasn't you,

but it most easily could've been.

When was the time we laughed hardest?

This is a quiz, same as all the ones before,

our drinks always, somehow, lose their fizz,

yet together we just keep downing more.

What could be our latest thinking food?

And do you ever lust, do you ever brood,

over the glossy-eyed glances of nobody?

The tasteless lip-licking of the somebodies,

who have forgotten their sculpted ears

over the past three years.

Will we ever cross the isthmus?

Will it ever feel like candy christmas?

I get the feeling you're not excited.

Like the past is somehow gone for good.

But there's fireworks going off out there

and you're invited, and any time you

feel like leaving, you know, you could.

You're getting to that place now.

Where the world seems louder, somehow,

and you've got just as many things to say

as we did on our talk show, that Saturday.

See all your fantastical friends float

to the lavender spires in the sky!

I just have one more question for you.

Can you try?

And I Wonder And I Wonder And I Breathe

I would just like to point out that I

have never asked to take your breath away.

I wonder

why lamps never die.

I wonder

why there's always something else.

I wonder

how long seven months actually feels.

I wonder

about the position you sleep in.

I wonder

about the perfect strangers.

I wonder

about the quality of my sheets.

I wonder

about intimidating texting.

I wonder

about thick volumes people sometimes

love.

I wonder

about seventeen pencils.

I wonder

about necco wafer bones.

I wonder

about birds chillin' on the fence.

I wonder

when they'll come home.

I wonder

when the grass goes away.

I wonder

about zero.

I wonder

for tonight.

I wonder

for tonight.

I wonder

all over the countryside.

I wonder

on rolling hills that are

a bitch to walk over.

I wonder

on Coke and Caine.

I wonder

for the goodness sake

of the generation.

I wonder

for blood donations.

I wonder

about swimming leaves.

I wonder

about what you've read.

I wonder

about what you will never.

I wonder

something twelve times a day.

I wonder

about all the little marks

on the sidewalk.

I wonder

why no one looks up.

I wonder

for the well-being of the boat.

I wonder

for the sick child

but not the illness.

I wonder

for America's eating habits.

I wonder

if I eat too much.

I wonder

who thinks I'm cute.

I wonder

who thinks I puke.

I wonder

why I listen to what I do.

I wonder

what snow tastes like this year.

I wonder

who will speak at graduation.

I wonder

why my brother isn't team

captain.

I wonder

who is actually in charge, here.

I wonder

if falling asleep is the new cool.

I wonder

how much worse your paper

can get.

I wonder

what it feels like to be a man.

I wonder

about the escalator of today.

I wonder

about wetting the bed.

I wonder

about the days when for some reason

nothing gets you horny.

I wonder

who let me walk out the door

without a license.

I wonder

if my father knew I was calling

but didn't bother anyway.

I wonder

if there's a way to kiss away

what we barely remember.

I wonder

if I really have a voice.

I wonder

about the ingredients for sunlight.

I wonder

for the sake of elevation!

I wonder

for the six hundred jaywalkers!

I wonder

about your painted urns!

I wonder

about the required length

of my diary entries!

I wonder

if I even speak your language!

I wonder

who has seen the black water dam!

I wonder

who knows about the tedious stars!

I wonder

who feels the dark in the morning!

I wonder

who else tastes aluminum from

solemn weeks ago!

I wonder

who else digs their comfy hole

to put superficial wishes into!

I wonder

what else rhymes with the word!

I wonder

how old I will be when my

womb-confined sibling

feels this feeling!

I wonder

if I will have a little

tambourine boy of my own!

I wonder

about the little princess of May!

I wonder

what color her eyes will be!

I wonder

about the color of November!

I wonder

what the hell is so different!

I wonder

what the hell is so funny!

I wonder

what the hell is the if!

I wonder

why you don't say fuck!

I wonder

why not ever!

I wonder

why not forever!

I wonder

why you don't fuck yourself!

I wonder

why I won't fuck myself!

I wonder

if the floorboards listen

with cork ears!

I wonder

about the great big game!

I wonder

all those beautiful elephants!

I wonder

their skin turns grey in winter!

I wonder

for your pretty life!

I wonder

for all the pretty inside.

I wonder

if I could maybe

just once

take your breath away.

You Look Like Morning

"Baby, I have been here before,

I’ve seen this room and I’ve walked this floor." -Leonard Cohen

I ate dinner with your family on Sunday night,
which you know, you were there,
choking on the smell of sweet potatoes,
while I sat there with the green plate,
my favorite color,
wanting dinner to never be over.
Sundays are meant for escaping,
and I went chasing the faintest diamond
to arrive in front of your house, like so
many summer evenings stuck together.

We hummed harmonies while I paced
maniacally back and forth, kept hitting
that chair but never moved it, kept looking
straight at you but never showed it.
Right, I’ve slept in this room,
that’s what it is that makes me feel
at home. Nodding politics with your mom,
debating semantics with your dad—
Is soup a food? So many questions unanswered.
Like so many songs gone unsung,
trapped instead in the back-pockets of mimes,
trembling in the foyer, afraid to say goodbye.
They are the sweetest, the anonymous.
I am the evening wind brushing your arm.
The summer kite flying over your lips.

Your Vikings sweats,
your thick-rimmed glasses,
your unpainted toenails
made you look like Morning,
in every way as unprepared
as it is marvelous.
What I would give to be able
to wake up to Morning.

You looked straight at me
while loudly chewing ice
without even thinking twice,
while I took my time,
eating every last bite
of my family dinner
Sunday night.

Timelines/If It's Meant To Be

I'm running out of games to play,

and it seems that the fragile day

is finally gone, and we're moving on.

I dream of all the girls I've missed

'till I've landed on the one I kissed

in this room where the world

does not exist.

You've got the answers

to all the questions I write down,

to all the perfection that I drown

in the hurricane of my mind.

And if it's meant to be,
then you'll walk away from me
every time that we

collide.

My nerves are blowing freely,

it seems this night has ended early,

but what do I know. Look out your window,

and see that I have come for you,

some things won't stop from feeling new,

and I won't let you leave until you've

realized it, too.

You've got the answers

to all the questions I write down,

to all the perfection that I drown

in the hurricane of my mind.

And if it's meant to be,
then you'll walk away from me
every time that we

collide.

Help, get these timelines off of me,

they're wearing me thin,

they're doing me in,

but for you I would smile again

and again and again and again and again.

I've got the answers

to all the problems that we had,

to all the nights when we felt bad

for forgetting all the

wonders we kept inside.

And if it's meant to be,
then you'll walk out of that door,

like every time before,

and you'll abandon me,
like every other time that we

collide.

The Rest Of My Life In Yachats, Oregon

Bronze autumn beaches give in to foam,
dragging in sun kelp, and moon tides,
and whatever else the maidens tried to hide.
They welcomed me into their spacious room,
full of satin bed-pillows, soaps and tomes.
I recall that my urges were still in full bloom.
I found myself wishing it were my home,
mine to pilfer, devour and roam,
I found myself wishing it were my home.

I recall all the little things they said:
Things like, “Well, then all the better,”
and “If it’s not tonight, it’s forever.”
The evening swelled without warning,
toppling the thick marble of my head.
I wanted nothing to do with morning.
Yet they were kissing each other, instead.
They were neither joyful nor dead—
They were simply kissing each other, instead.

Silvery waves beat against the still night gong.
Quivering faces loom out of the window,
knowing full well it’s the only way to go.
Soon they were losing tooth after tooth,
spitting out the words to their favorite song.
I recall their final words of truth:
“You have done everything wrong,”
they sang as they swam along,
“Yes, you have done everything wrong.”

I recall standing with a furrowed brow,
watching them from the autumn beach,
which has since been flooded with bleach.
They were all I had and we knew it, too,
and they still got away from me, somehow.
I watched my toes slowly turn blue.
“I think I’m ready for the morning, now,”
as all my yesterdays began to bow,
“I think I really want it to be morning, now.”

Caffeine (Is Going To Kill You)

I said I couldn't get enough of this feeling

then I just threw it up everywhere.

I get queasy from even the slightest whiff

of coffee roasting in the air.

My tea is slowly coursing cold

as the windshield tastes the first frost.

And I can't see the road anymore.

I'm starved, quavering. Someplace, lost.

And falling asleep.

And falling asleep.

My Coke, I'll do my best to keep.

Any More?

Tomorrow will you crash my afternoon?

Or will my heart have stopped too soon,

pressed firmly against my fingertips.

I think from now on we just won't have lips.

And the flowers won't have petals,

their stems made out of precious metals.

I think from now on you won't have feet,

and instead I'll spit into the street.

I'd spit right now just to hear you protest,

but I know too well we won't be pressed

for time, clothes, who knows.

From now on I just won't have a nose.

My thoughts may never be heard,

not by the feather, not by the bird.

I spent the night tickling you on the floor.

But your flag isn't mine to wave, anymore.

A Somber Shade of Blue

Two years ago, a century had been undone,

but Progress had won, and the bow of the ship

was starting to face toward the sun.

And then Dayton nearly lost.
And Bachman somehow won.
And Oberstar is no longer around.
And Prop 19 was burned to the ground.
And Boehner is the new House Speaker.
And Murray nearly lost to Rossi.
And Feingold was kicked out.
And Sestak was overcome.
And Mike Lee and Marco Rubio and Rand Paul are drinking tea.
And The Senate is white.
And three pro-gay judges were voted no.
And Dudley took Kitzhaber.
And LePage took Cutler.
And Scott sank Sink.
And Bennett just pulled through.
And Kirk turned Obama’s seat red.
And in two years,

we'll face around again.

Seven Ways To Say That We Will Never Get There

1.

We're already halfway to the end and there's no point in starting late.

2.

The bedroom's full of flies, sorry, the bedroom's full of flies.

3.

Look at the stars, look how they shine for you.

Shit, have you heard that song before?

4.

They're all out of ice cream at the local grocery store.

5.

[flapping fish sounds]

6.

"Do you think you could do me a favor?"

Well, that of course depends: First, whether or not your favor involves me going in or out of my way to bring you happiness, assuming it does, and if it does it better not be a subtle kind of happiness, one that I can't read in the lines on your face but see explode out to your toes and fingertips, into an overbearing hug; Second, if the favor you so desperately require is truly too much for yourself to handle, then perhaps by doing this favor for you, you can see that I not only care for you like the raindrops do for the leaves, but that I want you by me, at most hours of the night and certainly all hours of the day.

"Sure."

7.

"Thanks, bro."

Novembus Primus

Cotton candy cows

doing a jig

just before the

artificial sunrise!

What a stupid way to remember

the first of November.

Hollow End

They tell me it's Halloween tonight,

the streets are nulled with shivering kids

while crumbs stupidly fall off our lips.

I should have dressed like a fairy,

but instead I ache like a fallen

pear, dropped for an impossibly subtle

purpose. We're handing out my bruises

to all the spiders and cowboys, tonight.

Shudder.

The window's still open

from when I

aired out all the summer dust, hoping

that you would stop by for a holiday:
It is a holiday, isn't it? Or is it the

summoning of a gracious omen,

using the tossed aluminum and

rejected pocket-poems as a sigil...

What a sight!

What a night!

A lascivious prayer answered

when the rain has at last stopped,

A paragon of sunlight

floating before me, commenting on

how clean the bed smells.

Yes I know, I spent all day in here.

And then rummage through all

of my picture-books with a smile.

That's my dad on the beach, having a beer.

Then somehow find me,

once so far trembling

and now so far near.

And the torches of the kids

keep the room so well lit!

Cauldrons, barricading doorways

to keep jealousies at bay!

No one is going to call you anything

so long as the night carries on,

full empty nests and puppetry.

I'm summoning my omens.

But soon I'll close up the floor

knowing full well you won't make

an illuminated visit.

I've spent a year chewing through

your shifting lore.

And I doubt I'll miss it.

Nearly November

I admit that I think strongly of you

when I go traipsing

through street-side leaves.

I kick them until they fill my shoes,

because of something like you.

And already the leaves kissed

with crystal, I am saying goodbye

to the beginning for the last time.

Now is when thigh muscles freeze

like locker meat and jeans really suck.

I can't afford much more standing

around waiting for people to put

their coats on,

coats warm

coats cozy

coats closer than I thought possible.

All I have is this scarf,

it's orange and smiles a lot like your shoes do.

A Poem That Could Go Either Which Way

You must cause a lot of accidents.

A lot of bird calls coming your way:

Tweet tweet. Wow I expected more.

No matter, the bells are ringing now

and there seems to be some confusion.

Children tripping across the street,

Bridesmaids streaming across the street.

All for some big event I should probably

be at, unless of course nobody is there.

You must tell me your name.

No, not the name on your application

but the one that I should use when

calling out to you in the spooky corn maze.

Surely someone must be out there.

Someone has got to be out there.

A Vicious Rain

I will be upset if I get an A on that paper.

I would be upset even if everyone ceases to appear,

or if all my syllables produced laughter,

or if every letter plucked out of my shrink-wrapped

skull made you blush.

I would be upset if you ever wanted to talk to me.

(yesterday was a bad day)

This morning was slightly darker than some.

Mucky ponds reflect softened bricks.

Hidden staircase reveals itself unwillingly,

Chain-

Link Gate

C | l | o | s | i | n | g.

(so today must be a good day)

Corners of highway signs bent in,

the pissed-off wind inverting umbrellas.

Intelligent men smoke drooping cigarettes

under the silver belly of sky

stuffed with nutrients and razor blades.

(but mom, i say, i'm not pregnant and i don't have cancer,)

All of my fragile gifts have gone to waste,

and I can't even begin to taste

this hot chocolate for another twenty minutes.

By then I will have moved on

probably to a better drink that won't

scathe me for freezing.

(i'm just a boy)

My fingers are blinking back tears.

I'm looking for someone to blame

for all these hideous days of rain.

You fucking suck.

Hiding From The Day

The blinds were shut when I

woke up, so it was dark,

then I opened them up and

it was dark again. Thirsty lips

and quenched leaves. Drowning

wheels sliding in the street. A bird

flying out there but you can't see it,

and she can't see the ground, she could

be minutes from the moon and

she wouldn't see it.

The window's a droplet spiderweb.

The chimney's shaking, in fear, or cold,

it never really said. Turned off every alarm.

Rolled over.

Rolled over.

Rolled over.

Bit into the pillow.

Rolled over.

Then the coffee got cold and the oatmeal stuck

together like there was nothing else for them in

the world, but there's a microwave in this room.

Yeah, there's a microwave in this room.

Went shirtless until I had to pee.

Went smileless until I had to read.

Run down the stairs to ask when mom got divorced.

Try to remember how old I was in 1999. Give up,

Continue begging for praise via e-mail format.

Wonder if I'm missed. Then type "who gives".

Backspace Backspace, then a few times more.

Burn a hole into the bed, "I see you're putting

that new memory foam to good use."

Contemplate the properties of memory foam.

Will it remember me in the trash heap?

Who else, if not memory foam.

Hollow snacks. Cheap walks around the kitchen

to blow off some steam, harden some blood, find

the right state of mind required to compose

a social symphony. Thumb through a T.S Eliot

poem I tried to read, once.

What if the Internet hit an iceberg.

Broken branches backlash.

It's been raining for a day now and

it's painfully weak. It comes in buckets,

little small ones used by my sister to scoop

up nothing on the living room floor.

It ought to come in waves,

actual ones that sound like they're going

to crush the roof in. But never do.

Just some more rain food.

Just another busted gut.

Papers thrown about, marked

with the kiss of calamity.

And I just sent you a text

that was meant for myself

while you were sitting in

a theater watching what I

wanted us to watch ourselves.

Pour, Pour, Pour, Baby.

I spent the day hiding from the things you never say,

and I only wish it could stay this way.

Don't We All Hate Poetry

Your outbursts are stained glass,
and I know you mean no offense.
But you tore up all my works,
sprinkled them on the grass,
and haven’t bothered with
any of them since.

If you can't stand poetry,
how long will it be
until you can't stand me?

I wander home,
I wonder alone,
what it would take to break your rule.
After all, this is me, who you've known,
and not some pith spat from school.

How would you feel about poems
if they were written solely for you?
If they were dripped in honey,
something borrowed and tested and true?

I wish I could give it up.
I wish I could write a song
or dance along
with all you consider to be cute.
Hell, I wish I was mute.
Then I'd sit outside
on the bitter ground
and flail my arms around
to show how much you mean to me.
Maybe then you'd drop a coin into my cup.

In spite of the sting of your words,
I don't really blame you.
Because if I were to suddenly be you,
I'd hate my poems, too.

Spectacular

Is there an opposite of a vortex

because I think you are one

and every time you walk

my lips move and every time

you smile you make nimbus

waves which purr after every

exit and whisper into my ear

after every entrance which

should show you by now that

I mean playfulness

but until I make obvious the

line I crossed on April the

twenty-fourth I guess for

now we'll just stand around

in a daze until one of us

motions for a hug,

and it was absolutely the best thing, ever.

Something Bright To Burn

The garden was full of something else

that wasn't toilet paper or granite:

something like crisped potatoes.

Or McIntosh apples.

Their eyes went all spooky

turning into massive windows,

and when I walked through them

I could only hear weak groaning;

Probably just a pumpkin.

Probably just a lost puppy.

I sat on that Probably for a

few hours, until the sun fell

(a pathetic orange crisp),

then fumbled around in the

dark looking for something.

I swear it was your hair

that I felt.

Just A Drop Of Your Exhilaration

You have an idea?

Good, then use it.

You have regrets,

you'll need them too.

I bet you make

the prettiest lies.

They smell like a

greenhouse.

Worm-like fingers

scrape the dirt in

search of words,

effervescent in their

emerald cocoons.

You have pretty teeth?

Well you'll need them

to gnaw the gems off

their stems, and don't

mind me, sitting here,

hoping for just a crumb.

Wear Purple

Six years ago, I imagined myself lying dead on the bathroom floor.

That image passed from me long ago.

I don't know much anything at all,

but this I do know:

"When the rain is blowing in your face
And the whole world is on your case

And you're dreaming of a better place,"

Think of the purple lilies,

think of the rich, golden-honey sunsets,

think of the overnight metamorphosis,

think of the expensive gourmet coffee,

think of the people you smile at in line,

think of the tender touch soon to come,

think of the ornate skeleton of snow,

think of the love made for your name,

think of those vivid dreams just before waking,

think of those who look up love in the dictionary,

think of how lost they must be,

think of the treasures you call yours,

think of moonlit walks on white shores,

think of golden talks in the midnight,

think of the twin you've never met before,

think of all the grandchildren yet to hold,

think of cold, soft hands,

think of laughter falling like leaves,

think of where your genie could be hidden,

think of the stars, and the way they wink at you,

think of summertime, when time is yours,

think of the places you yourself will choose to go,

think of the exotic animals and plants you'll eat,

think of the docks you'll walk at dusk,

think of all the secret places you'll discover,

think of who you purposely won't tell,

think of the family you'll hide in there,

think of their faces grinning at your wisdom,

think of their heads nodding at your hardships,

think of how they'll drink your salty tears,

think of the morning after the darkest night,

think of the way your cereal tastes damn sweet,

think of how brushing your teeth feels worthwhile,

think of how you look in the mirror,

think of how no one will ever be able to hurt you,

think of how that was then and, ultimately,

this is now, and now can never be forever,

and think of how, somewhere down the line,

It Gets Better.