There's a certain glow
To a tired sun
As if it is giving its all one last time
Feet brushing the grass,
stirring up the tiny bugs—
they fly up and then settle 
back into the grass.
The dirt underfoot warns of night
Laughter echoes through the thick air
Another party I declined
Instead I sit in my garden
Among the beetles and moths
And watch the sky turn from golden to gray to a 
deep, deep blue
The clouds...

(Some context: This was supposed to be for Expert Review for the Letter Writing Competition, but that window closed and now I need you guys to review this fictional/fantasy letter.)

For Keegan, to help you understand me, yourself, and someone you have yet to meet.

The first thing you should know about me; I wasn’t a storyteller. I couldn’t say a few inspiring words and soldiers would give their lives for me. A select few still did, though, but I...

you there, in the faux lab coat with the overly large ego. you've got a flair for the dramatics, don't you? spare me the excuses, you crawl into the crevices of others' lives and call it an observation. you track tragedies from a distance and call it an experiment. do you know when to stop? when to let go? when does scientific curiousity amount to intrusion, a part of ourselves stolen and placed under a microscope? i get the fascination,...

Quinn could almost hear his  apologetic whispers as he set the trap. She could imagine how sorry he must feel lacing a skinny net over the glossy blue glob.

But what for?

Cole's pathetic apologies couldn't remove sticky blue remnants staining her hands. Neither could he ease the pain her Mum was suffering for months.

So, why guiltily apologise over and over when it didn't change anything?

Quinn sighed.

She snatched up the mouldy sponge and began scrubbing the floor...

cruel is the master that chains poets with brittle rope
tell me lies, i’ll frame it on my wall with plaster; 
i think i like the way they look in your scrawl 
but midnight reflections whisper otherwise in my ear.

do you remember when art was freeform? 
(of course you don’t. structured is the life of a poet.) 
tell me why we can’t dip fingers in wine
and call it mutiny, or lick Eve’s tempestuous apple
to behold a sin....

She presses two heart-shaped stickers to your cheeks and for a moment you can’t breathe, but that’s okay because she’s having trouble with it too.

And it is lapses in judgement that leave you teetering on the edge. They call this place “World’s End” like that’s a bad thing. Like it’s not a place where you can come to forget that you’re just a reincarnation of everything else that’s ever mattered. Like it’s not a place where you can lie...

There's a certain glow
To a tired sun
As if it is giving its all one last time
Feet brushing the grass,
stirring up the tiny bugs—
they fly up and then settle 
back into the grass.
The dirt underfoot warns of night
Laughter echoes through the thick air
Another party I declined
Instead I sit in my garden
Among the beetles and moths
And watch the sky turn from golden to gray to a 
deep, deep blue
The clouds...

you there, in the faux lab coat with the overly large ego. you've got a flair for the dramatics, don't you? spare me the excuses, you crawl into the crevices of others' lives and call it an observation. you track tragedies from a distance and call it an experiment. do you know when to stop? when to let go? when does scientific curiousity amount to intrusion, a part of ourselves stolen and placed under a microscope? i get the fascination,...

Quinn could almost hear his  apologetic whispers as he set the trap. She could imagine how sorry he must feel lacing a skinny net over the glossy blue glob.

But what for?

Cole's pathetic apologies couldn't remove sticky blue remnants staining her hands. Neither could he ease the pain her Mum was suffering for months.

So, why guiltily apologise over and over when it didn't change anything?

Quinn sighed.

She snatched up the mouldy sponge and began scrubbing the floor...

cruel is the master that chains poets with brittle rope
tell me lies, i’ll frame it on my wall with plaster; 
i think i like the way they look in your scrawl 
but midnight reflections whisper otherwise in my ear.

do you remember when art was freeform? 
(of course you don’t. structured is the life of a poet.) 
tell me why we can’t dip fingers in wine
and call it mutiny, or lick Eve’s tempestuous apple
to behold a sin....

She presses two heart-shaped stickers to your cheeks and for a moment you can’t breathe, but that’s okay because she’s having trouble with it too.

And it is lapses in judgement that leave you teetering on the edge. They call this place “World’s End” like that’s a bad thing. Like it’s not a place where you can come to forget that you’re just a reincarnation of everything else that’s ever mattered. Like it’s not a place where you can lie...

i’d take tea with the gods
if they would listen
spill liquified moons into delicate china teacups
and we will choke on tears woven from gossamer

what a bitter heart, my dear
dandelions coat my tongue with tuscany yellow
i shiver in the moon’s glittering penumbra
as we paint waxing crescents across the sky