It’s cold this time of year

Bitter fights

White frosted hands

and words

School is tiring

Dull and monotonous

It is warm though

All clanking metal lockers

and heated bodies

Scrabbling, clawing

To get out.

Summer will soon burst forth

Telling signs of brewing freshness

Sunlight clambering along the red gloss

Paint of my home

The days grow longer

and my nails grow short

My nerves are bundled tightly

Knotting in my chest

I have found myself i believe

But will it be enough?

My fingers stained black

With ink and graphite

Spray-paint fumes are my perfume

and

I kill trees for a living.