We cut through frigid air,
We are ice picks;
We are pointed each way we turn,
Figure skaters,
Dancing on the sidewalks,
I trip.
Metamorphasised a triple salcow,
Ten points.
The transfiguration of mistakes into works of art.
What it all comes down to at the end,
The delicate task of placing the mask on any symbol of effort.
Hyperaware of the absence of originality,
Overfed and undersexed;
A bleak outlook.

Willful domestication
Willful enslavement.

I would **** the venom from your wound,
If you’d come close enough to the ground,
Come down for a day and rest your head,
You don’t have to stay, but I can’t see you dead.
Your gashes are self-inflicted,
Your soul has been addicted since day one
When you first felt the sun,
Because when you listen you understand,
You were born a boy and transformed into a man.
You burnt your bridges and then mourned their loss,
You lie back in sunglasses and catch a tan on the cross.
Lies are your clothes,
You layer up and talk the talk,
You’ll take every blow,
If it means you can walk the walk.

Your brain blacks out and your mouth becomes a portal to the deepest corner of your mind,
My lips pout, as you crave the immortal, and I am sickened by the selfishness I find.

Before you leave like I know you will,
I’ll force the sun to stand still,
Relish in what is now,
Let yourself take a bow.
We all want to be special but no one could stand to be alone,
Your mind binds your heart, but I can feel you to the bone.
Every dark story pours from you like a fountain,
The tallest mountain shuddered when you approached him,
You declared your sins with pride,
Before you decided to run and hide.
Afflicted by others beauty stuck in your eyes,
The mirror shows the boy you used to despise,
So you killed him, and you buried him there,
You marked your body and cut your hair.
You placed yourself high enough for everyone to see,
They watch as you drown, and you smile with glee,
One day this will make a great story,
Then maybe they’d be sorry,
The man you are is split into parts,
They drink your beer and smoke your darts,
Children of your mind you’ve let grow,
Things we should keep hidden show off to the world without shame,
And if you’re ever done seeking fame
Know that I know you from the inside,
I’ve seen the “you” that you’ve denied,
Just relax, and learn to say:
“I’ve done enough, it’s been a good day.”

You forget how to stay the same because it took so long for you to love yourself,
You are a siren on the rocks with your heart on your sleeve and a bottle on the shelf,

You are a fire; so pick a side:
Light their way or burn them alive.
Children are so cruel, I know this well,
Home is a heaven and outside is hell.

You tarnished your silver spoon,
And you found the rabbit in the moon,
You didn’t know what it meant,
But it’s worth the money you spent.
And oh, how I mourn for what never was,
Pretty is as pretty does.

I’m more afraid of losing you than I am of losing myself

To force one to create;
To turn the gears of the mind by force of will
Ironic;
That the source of creativity has become so artificial,
Like plastic flowers in an outdoors garden,
Not wrong,
Not dangerous,
Unsettling;
One of these things is not like the other.
Something is wrong;
This is too familiar,
I have been here before.
Sometimes I feel like I’ve known you my whole life,
Silence is a spirit which haunts me,
Hold my tongue,
Punching my gut,
Every time brave words bloom in my throat,
This banshee screams reality in my wind-beaten face.
She is subdued by a fraternal bond, a weightless chain,
Silence is tamed by the right company,
The demon exorcised from my body,
I am sanctified in brief lucidity,
Clarity, however fleeting still exists,
Despite the holes in your brain,
The ultimate in body modification.
Every ugly duckling is told they’re a swan,
So they seek their kind,
Unable to set roots,
Assured that there is a kindred spirit,
You just have to find them.
You don’t know what you have until it’s gone,
They ugly duckling becomes more shark-like every day,
Unable to stop, a flower constantly about to wither,
With age comes beauty,
The Rhododendron expels an army of stamens,
Male in essence, coloured neon pink,
******* objects of desire for the hungry bee,
Honey and perfume,
Comfort and poison,
The children of flowers,
Opposing in nature,
Twins in function,
Sweetening, attracting, saturating,
Numbing the tongue,
Burning the nose,
So sweet I could *****.
I want more time and you want more attention,
Kind gestures, kind reward,
So sweet that I’m sick.

We haven’t spoken like we did,
Words feel like discarded currency;
Useless now, and inconsequential in hindsight.
Query into the why,
I respond with what,
Like a dam of unspokeness has burst,
And words flow past;
Powerful, but inevitably more destructive than I hoped,
Pushing away the life preserver I am offered,
I can do it alone, because that’s what it will come down to,
Dismissive of pessimism, you make claims of happy endings, so I refute:

“Babe, we’re fighting a cold war,
No one can win when there’s everything to lose.
Lines are drawn, allegiance implicit.
Unspoken resentment.
Vocal frustration.
A couple’s quarrel that never was,
Like Frankenstein’s monster,
The rearranged parts of our whole,
Pieces of fiction,
Light folly with cruel consequences,
Denial sets in,
My road to hell will always be paved with your best intentions.”

I will not hear, I will not see.
Willful disability,
Crippled with envy.
I am a monster with emeralds in her eyes,
Seeing the universe through glass tinted green instead of rose,
I am the monster who is thin and jagged,
Unable to produce my own warmth,
Cutting everyone near.

I am the monster who plays house,
The monster who wants it to be home,
The vicious beast with a place to rest its head,
It’s easy to be alone, but somehow less satisfying.

"My road to hell will always be paved with your best intentions.”

Our destruction is mutually assured,
No move is left unanalysed,
Hyperawareness.
Things we side aside before are the objects of argument;
Proxy wars.

I am a giraffe racing a gazelle,
Long strides mean nothing;
Beauty is the crowd favourite,
Tripping over my own limbs,
Tendons severed by chasing wildcats,
Falling, devoured, as beauty reaches the finish line.

Détente.

I’ve felt the rhythm of the world,
Pulsating from an unknown source,
Illuminating every facet of existence.
Life and death are Illusions.
They are choices that we make,
As we drift asleep,
In the transitory second,
The twilight in between dreams and reality.
Preservation is unnaturally natural.
Everything will fade,
Everything will die,
Sustainment is useless,
Ignorant of facts, our brains think in Formaldehyde,
Doing anything to hold on to gold dust as it slips through our fingers.

I’ve been caught in this roundabout for as long as I remember,
Assured that the chain would never be broken,
Fearing what we can never know,
Fearing more what I truly understand.
Understanding allows for criticism,
People who hate themselves know themselves too well.

I’ve become so evasive towards touch;
I thought I was made with scissorhands,
Sharp blades, unable to satisfy what phantom limbs cannot feel,
Now I know that it is okay;
I am afraid.
And now I understand why.

You are a wounded lion,
I would make myself small to pull the thorns from your paw.
Your words translate from my thoughts,
While my lungs fill with water from my eyes.
Drowning in the reflection of dreams,
Without a paddle, caught in the riptide.
Every word you speak pulls me deeper,
Pulls me farther away from what I know is real and solid.

You would be a band-aid for loneliness,
Stuck to me.
In silence is trust,
That what we have is enough.
I watch you through glass the most vivid rose,
My expectations are great, and you set the bar.
I would let myself burn to see you shine,

I am here to help.

We are magnetically bound,
Where I go you will follow.
You retired your bloodhound,
You’ll find me on your own tomorrow.
We are anonymous, reviling in nothingness,
But how many times has nothing been wrong?
Nothing is the last straw,
There is no appeal process when you are nameless,
The fringe keeps you hidden;
Hidden from your monsters,
Hidden from your salvation,
My personal Jesus.



You have thrown me into the deep end,
My hands and feet are bound,
And my voice can’t make a sound,
But my worth will be proven,
I will swim until I reach the sun as it sets on the world,
And I will tell him everything about you and that special girl,
He’s seen it all and will see it all again,
He is the light; he is the storm and the rain.
Hate is a model;
A person with their solar removed:
We all shine like stars, but this one has collapsed,
This one has lapsed into a different state,
In a stranger’s shoes, drinking a stranger’s *****;
He will cry for a man he never met,
At the alter he burns his regrets,
In tribute to a God we tend to forget,
To make amends for our debts,
The collection company is calling.

Face first.
The water is cold,
I am cold,
I have been cold.
I have been aging too fast,