You are my pink skies with candy floss clouds

My open fields flooded far and wide with cherry blossoms

and green feathered sparrows singing tunes of your favourite songs that sound kinda-something-sorta like your voice,

The walls in my castle populated perfectly with portraits of you

and you already know portraits are my favourite.

Somehow my imagination bound beautifully with my reality such that I could tell no difference.

You are my Utopia.

But utopia is subject to interpretation.

You like candy floss occasionally, pink is not your favourite colour and I do not even know what your favourite flower is

Without forgetting to mention, you prefer beaches.

You like puns, peaches, foxes and fairies but my world has none of that, I want to accept those but you will not have it any other way.

I want our worlds to collide but in a more subtle way, but when that kinda thing happens it is almost always apocalyptic

So, what is yours will never be mine and what is mine you do not even want at all.

My utopia sounds like it belongs in a book, but we all know how long that lasts.




*Be sure to check out Utopian Dystopia Pt. 2!

You used to be my pink skies and cotton candy clouds but now everything is grey, rainy and miserable.

And it makes me want to cry.

We're going in a different direction now and I am not the one who pulled the steering wheel.

I no longer see my open fields flooded far and wide with cherry blossoms and all the green sparrows have flown away.

They are crying now and I can no longer hear your voice.

Instead, it is all a barren wasteland. And the sand is not even at least the beautiful orange the Sahara desert always is.

All the portraits in my castle have gone blank. The castle itself, war torn, brought down to rubble as a result of the battle I fought within myself.

I may have lost the battle but I have not yet lost the war. I hope.

Unfortunately, our worlds did not collide as subtly as I had prayed. It was a violent mishap, an event outside of time.

I sit silently and alone in the centre of my dreams as I have witnessed them being violently washed away by ocean waves with my hands tied and bound by my admiration for you.

You like beaches right? That has to mean something, maybe a reason for you to stay a little longer.

You are my Dystopia.

But dystopia is subject to interpretation.

And what is yours will never be mine and what is mine you do not even want at all.

My dystopia sounds like it belongs in a book, but we all know how long that lasts.




*Be sure to check out Utopian Dystopia Pt. 1!

She said to me:

"Don't you wanna go on an adventure?"

Literally seconds before taking the wrong turn.

I always remembered our car rides for everything they were not.

Trips down to the convenience store felt like driving down the highway at a hundred miles per hour,

With a view of the entire cosmos to our left.

They felt like driving through the night only to watch the sunrise pollute the ****** sky with it's pink and gold hue of sheer contentment.

It is looking up at the sky to find the purest of cotton candy clouds.

And for some reason, I always picture you trying to take a bite out of them.

If this is what a trip to the convenience store feels like then I can only dream of what Route 66 holds.

On our adventures I catch myself looking at you with joy in my eyes,

I want to say something but I do not know what.

All I know is that I am glad you were in the passenger's seat.

I felt lonely.

I felt it so strongly that I began to smell it, maybe that was just my decay or maybe that was just me,

No excuses.

I felt like the tortoise and the hare, except,

there was no tortoise and I was not the hare.

It was like watching the last star fade as the sun began to rise,

like watching the last light of hope leave, they left me for the passionate lover,

The lover I could never be.

I went to God for help but he just gave me the rope instead, and it was at that moment I realized,

God is dead.

And now I am too.

Writing creates a paradigm.

Much like a camera, it is a paradigm that we can look through in order to see the world, or create one, from a different perspective.

I decided to step away from my art and look at the lens itself instead of looking through it.

What I found is that we are able to paint pictures with words, pictures that don’t exist and we can create artworks with those pictures that allow you to see them in the most magical way possible while knowing that each artwork is different and unique depending on the person that composes it.

It is being able to travel the world as we know it through symbols and letters while not moving an inch from where we are in time and lead ourselves to a beautiful yet twisted sense of duality.

Maybe it’s the feeling of godhood in creating life, worlds or even stories yet I am still human but I become a god outside of time.

I take my imagination and make it tangible.

They say actions speak louder than words but I am a writer and words are all I have. So, maybe one day, as these words drip from my fingertips they will find you and they will drown your thoughts with beautiful pictures and hopefully, you might just understand,

Why we write.

They say actions speak louder than words,

But there’s still a reason why the pen is mightier than the sword.

Heartbreak in many ways is a small death, all the same.

A part of you dies when regret is born and you can never get it back while wondering what could have, would have or should have happened.

When your food tastes horrible and the colour fades from the world around you and you are left with what only feels like a fever dream. A low budget version of reality and the writers are all on leave.

Why does this happen? Even though we've seen this film before. Different actors on different days but we all imagine the same ending and we know that there is a plot twist at the end when things don't go the way we thought it would. The way we hoped it would.

Is it perhaps that our hopes and dreams are the leading cause of death? Might we all stop romanticising the idea that our lives are one of the greatest films of all time?

Oftentimes the greatest tragedy is not death but rather the fact that we choose to feel nothing at all. That somehow closing the tap is the answer. Turning off the TV so you don't have to see how it all ends.

Unplug the cables. Throw away the disc. Supress the feeling of wanting more. Out of sight out of mind.

But in order to die, one must live. And if the little death is inevitable, why not live like it isn't? What exactly do you have to lose that you haven't lost already?

Roses are red

Violets are blue

But roses aren't really red they're kinda this weird shade of apple

And violets are far from blue, they're actually purple

See these are the lies we tell ourselves so the rest of our stories make sense,

Like I keep telling myself that "I love you's" are best said in twos

But I think the chances of that these days are about as good as trying to find a violet that's actually blue so

In that case

Roses are apple

Violets are purple

Good luck trying to finish that one

Because my "I love you's" are lonesome.

The countless midnights I've spent with tears running down my cheeks,

Wishing you were next to me and I trying to imagine the tender touch of your palms against mine,

I sit here madly in love with you but I'm wishing I could unlove you,

If only one could fall out of love as fast as one plummets into it,

But gravity only pulls downward.

I was not your cup of tea

you said, as I begged you just to take one sip.

Your hair is long and beautiful.

In all its darkness second to none and just a pinch of pure gold, seasoned perfectly to taste.

If it is not that then it is easily the ballerina of your finger dancing graciously around each strand in perfect harmony with the vibrations of the universe but only you and I know that you do this when you are deep in thought.

And I know to watch silently as a masterpiece is being created.

I look up at your eyes and I am quickly reminded of our first date, but I often remember it wrong, so maybe you can help me.

Sometimes I see a luscious field of green and the fresh soil through which our romance bloomed and in others, I see the universe, stars, and galaxies locked behind them of which mankind has yet to discover.

So etch my name in history once more for being the first man to float peacefully among your stratosphere.

In my enamor, I greatly appreciate your existence and for everything we have said and done to bring us to this exact moment.

At this moment, in your eyes and the poise of your hair, I am reminded of the stories we have yet to tell, and here’s to hoping that you will always be there to tell them with me.

Because you always had this enthusiasm for well-told stories and it would not be the same any other way.

We will carry this silence between us

And let the atmosphere tell our story

Because we both know we won't.

I love you is too generous for you

And I hate you is too permanent for me

And we've both agreed there's no in between.

So we will carry this silence between us.

As the atmosphere tells our story

Where we will both be waiting

For one of us to break the silence.

You know the one?

Where I am walking a tightrope, hundreds of miles up in the air, between two oceans and my heavy body swaying violently from left to right as I am slowly losing my balance trying not to fall into the waters we used to wash away our sins.

I can feel the wind running wildly through my hair as I am looking down despite the cliché advice people tell you when they know you're afraid of heights.

But I can't help it.

I see you all the way down there, sweeping the floor of your empty living room because you refuse to keep any furniture. That's where you and I cross our legs in silent protest against those who think floors were made only for standing.

Our little sandbox. Where you and I talk like we get paid weekly to do so. That's probably why you keep them so clean.

You say 'Maybe' a lot.

I think 'Maybe' is this little alternate universe shaped like a handbag where we shovel all the things we don't feel like dealing with after your morning coffee.

Maybe that's why we're so happy.

You don't even like coffee. You just like what it does to your body. You take your milk and sugar with coffee.

While our time together may be a happy memory to look back on, I'm wildly distracted by mother nature laying waste to my hair as if I didn't just spend a whole 45 minutes getting it just right.

It's cold up here.

I finally lost my balance. Simply because you looked up at me and smiled and in so doing, balloon on the loose, there I went.

And now I am met with a mouthful of salt.

All I give you are middle fingers like ornaments, gifts for you to only look at and you smile anyway, you smile for the both of us because I am hiding mine and you know how bad I am at doing that.

Luckily you taught me how to swim.

It’s been raining every single day for the past 21 years…

Every time I try and go outside, it’s always cold, grey and pouring with rain of the most substantial kind,

Everything looks just as sad and miserable as I do. I honestly can’t remember the last time it was ever sunny outside or even the last time I saw a colour other than grey.

I’ll be honest, there are some days where it’s just a light drizzle, and there are a few more colours than grey out, but everything is still wet and cold from the previous day that I just don’t want to bother.

Sometimes I’d begin to wonder how it’s even remotely possible for it to rain this much for so long. And even when it does stop raining for the night, everything sort of feels like there’s hope for tomorrow, but as soon as I wake in the morning,

more rain.  

I’ve come to explore my own house with the same curiosity of that which I wish to explore the world, but to me, the outside and the inside are one and the same because that’s all I’ve seen for the past 21 years.

I have tried to go outside while it’s raining, multiple times actually. At first, I think I can handle it, but then the water just starts to flood my shoes, my legs become heavy as does my clothes, and suddenly it feels like I’m walking around with twice as much weight as I should be.

I haven’t seen my friends in ages, they always tell me that I’m never around and I’ve been so distant. It’s like they can’t see the wet monsoon outside like I’m the only one experiencing it.

I’m truly beginning to think that all this rain is just a ‘me’ problem. I feel like I can go outside and just tell the rain to stop, it really feels like I could do that, and I’m pretty sure I remember one of my friends telling me the same thing.

But it’s not that simple.

It’s been like this for so long, everything around me has been destroyed by the water, the plants have all died, the wood in my house have begun to rot and there’s just too much damage that has been done. If the rain ever does stop, there’s so much to rebuild that it might as well rain forever and take the world with it.

Your quirks,

I like them.

I imagine our lips replicating the palms of pilgrims, touching fervently with intent,

Passion

and Love.

A love for something that exists not with us,

but an epiphany, a space of mind within our own epistemological plane that you and I may dwell in,

together.  

As we fabricate a reality that exists within a space of time where it is weakened to time itself.

Our kiss is the extension of time, a creation of maddening and temporary immortality.

You and I become gods outside of time so, just like the palms of two blushing pilgrims ready stand, pray to me.

Pray to me.

And I’ll pray to you.

You told me I wasn’t good enough.

I was the pile of spare change you’d never use because they were so low in value they made you feel cheap.

But there’s so much of me at once that I’m worth more than your hundred dollar bill.

You ain't ever gonna know what it's like

Watching painfully from a distance

Your story as a romance film

Where I am both the writer and the viewer

But someone has taken away my pen

And put your film on rerun

Not knowing how painful it is to watch.

Oh Father, if this is hell then show me the way so I may absolve my sins and wash away this punishment.

Amen.

Letting go is accepting that something better is waiting for you on the other side.

It's realising that the person who, you hope, will take a bullet to the chest for you is actually the one behind the gun,

Even though you still have time to jump out the way you find yourself debating wether you even want to.

See, we very quickly forget that closeness is a lot more hurtful and damaging than we lead ourselves to believe.

It’s the valentines day morning in the kitchen alone with a cup of coffee, in your pink fluffy robe, fervently reminding yourself that the only love that matters is the one you give yourself yet you know that is a complete load of ****.

It feels cold outside but it’s really not, that’s just you.

At this point I am so disconnected from myself

that if one day I ever decided to take my own life

it would be premeditated ******.

You were so good at origami.

You were able to fold these complex shapes and designs as if they were just exercises for you while I was okay at it, but yours were always better.

It seemed to come so easily to you and I had to try so hard, I tried to make mine as good as yours but they just wouldn't have it,

I think that's what I admired really,

the fact that you were so good that I aspired to fold simple pieces of paper as good as you, I think I fell in love with your art.

I ended up falling in love with the artist too.

But you always made them better than me.

If love is inferiority then I don't want it,

if loving you is comparing my origami to yours then I don't want it,

if my love for you fuels these words, then I don't want you reading them while you think of someone else.

Hi beautiful,

Love lives here, and we’ve got a room to spare.

Signed,
Forever Yours

She drew mindlessly.

Her pen gliding across her page like a figure skating demonstration.

So smooth, and precise but most importantly, beautiful.

No one ever really understood what she drew, an erratic and wild display of imagination curvy, rigid and sharp.

Like her tongue.

She illustrated her mind for the world to see, she laid herself bare. I looked upon her wilderness and read it like poetry.

I wish I had the courage to open myself up the way she did. God, I fell in love with her poems.

Yet she hid her poetry among these pictures cryptic, where she turned her pages into metaphors.

She made mine look inferior.

So I fell in love with an artist.

But an artist who drew for another.

You would walk into her room to find an awful mess. All the stars in the universe laid across her bedroom floor as she had plucked them one by one unsatisfied with every purchase.

No wonder I didn't see any stars last night.

I found her curled up on her bed crying. She said nothing was wrong with the most beautiful smile on her face simultaneous to her tears flowing like graceful Nile river wannabes.

You could see her pain. She was really ****** when it came to hiding it.

Sometimes you'd be looking straight into the eyes of pain, but you'd momentarily fall in love because it's so beautiful.

Despite her pain and her messy *** room there were days where she loved herself more than anyone else. And those days were frequent.

And on those days you could see how truly beautiful she is. It's like God took much longer when he made her, kinda like he was finessing her design.

I told her exactly that once and she replied:

"He made me weirdly pretty I think, like not normal pretty. Weird pretty. Idk."

The problem is that I was taught
to love God before I learned
to love myself.

I can only love that which looks like me because I have been made in the image of God
so I needed you to look like Him to look like me

so I could love you too.

Every love is a choice, I can love Him
as much as I love you because
I can choose to love you too.

I can say ‘I love you too’ because it is easier than saying ‘I love you’ directly.

We don’t truly know what love means

So I kiss the lips of a nihilist
because that is the love I learned to give.

I love you too but I love you, too.