Buckwheat Sweet

My hair is like honey
But I am not.
Golden, it trickles down in sweet smelling waves
And pools on my shoulders.
But I am not.


I am an unfair dichotomy,
Full of sadness and love,
Two things never meant to coexist and yet
Here I am.


My soul is the tragic moonlight and the blazing sun rests on my back,
My feet are ice but my hands tremble with electricity.
Have you ever snapped in half
Over a minute, a minute moment in time
Or seen yourself stretched thin and crumble over
Weeks
Months
Years?
I have.


I am the time that grows old, and I see my own hourglass ticking by,
and I wonder
When will I be flipped?
Will it be in a second or in the next season?
I never liked the spring, anyways.
I get trapped in between the mattress of boundless energy and electric work
And the wall of emptiness and quiet nights.


I do not wish myself on you,
And I do not wish my sun and moon away.
They are my penance, everything I know rests in the skies.
I am not honey.
But my hair is, and I invite the world to take a taste.