My Fall Creative Writing Bit

in the winter, orange leaves

will fall from old forgotten trees

that do not know what they can help you with.


And the wind will blow so cold

like your cruelest friends, so old,

the ones you are so yearning for right now.


Red and brown, it comes and takes

the comfort that the Summer makes.

We remember that we are just skin and bones.


Grey and blue, the things that Dew

It does to us the things it must:

It keeps us tied together in our holds.


Yellow tries and grey will die

and hopefully we’ll all survive.

Somehow all the flowers will still bloom.





The autumn, to me, has a mysterious and magical feeling of severe loneliness

The autumn, to me, has a mysterious and magical feeling of severe loneliness riding on its gusts of wind and playfully sneaking inside of its rattling leaves; a scary sort of loneliness that seems as if it has always been here and will outlast all who experience it; an eternal loneliness that brings with it a pressing sense of futility; the sensation that there is no reward to be had in this life, but only a few peculiar moments, some that smile to us and some that squeeze out life like some sort of cruel relentless gravity. The harvest moons are like the scrolling credits at the end of a pointless drama addicted to itself, so vast and so vain. A selfish, adolescent landscape that flaunts its flowers and fruit, but ultimately becomes hungover, sick and regretful, breeding worms and eventually just wet soil and fungus. This sense of horror and loneliness that the fall always brings me is impossible to escape, but it bullies me so tightly into some sort of corner that I remember that I am helpless. And surrendering is such a relief.