This month, It's always so cold, Bleak, If not foreboding. And I consistently find myself alone, After years of "putting myself out there." Wind and snow. Ice and clouds. My heart remains lukewarm, My body chilled more so than the day before. This month makes me feel as if I am the last living person in the world. Secluded by nothing, Because no one is around, Exists, Even long enough for me to feel somewhat accompanied. Death in '08. Mistakes made in '09. Falling out in '10. A barren heart forever more, It appears, Transforming my being If just for this one month out of an entire year. As if I step outside of my normal self, Overshadow all the reds and pinks With an attitude, A perspective seemingly darker than the color black.
This month, It's always so cold...
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