twenty one pilots:
dark, wooden floors. old, almost-empty wood houses. frosty mornings. half-melted candles. dried salt and sand on seashells brought home from the beach weeks ago. old grand pianos. fingers aching when you've cut the nails too short. mirrors in places too dark to use. flickering yellow lights with pull-chains and no covers. the smell of books. the bite of the cold. hiding from your family. thick sweaters.
regional at best:
late spring fading into summer. long grass. papercuts. three-quarter-sleeved shirts with holes and tears in them. bike rides to the ballfields. middle school. having too many notebooks. homemade popsicles. brick walls. glue residue on your fingers. writing your own poetry. hiding it from everyone. writing your name in a tree. cassette tapes.
the color sky blue. silver ink. long car rides through sunny mountains to a city. self-help. family reunions. gold rings. outdoor concerts. roller coasters. long, hard cries. holding hands. first kisses. sitting in the dark. learning a new instrument. writing not quite poetry but not quite non-prose. little cuts on your hands you don't remember getting. driving through thunderstorms. smiling through pain. forgetting how to feel happy, then finding it again.
coming home from college. late-night walks down roads. trying to hide your shaking. tattered notebooks with soft pages. headaches. bitter tea at two in the morning. playing your music too loud. new attempts at self-help that even you don't believe in. red pens. smudged ink. the smell of sharpies. crying in front of an old friend. lying on the floor for no reason. cold pizza eaten alone. trying to remember how it was to be okay.