My dreams are haunted by idyllic promises—
Who is my ghost with the siren voice?
The moon knows; I too, cannot shine alone—
Who is this light reflecting on my soul?
My heart yearns for a movie-like story—
Who is my co-star when the credits end?
Is my heart truly stuck on waiting—
or did It already choose someone unattainable?

I will do it,
Shakespeare will have a nemesis,
My words will become the new Sonnet 18.

I will do it,
You will feel it deep in your bones,
Even when our lives are never meant to cross.

I will do it,
When you bear your secrets to the moon,
A reflection of me will embrace you.

I will do it,
So I rise from this corpse of failed dreams,
Become a discipline of Eros.

I will do it,
Entangle my name in yours,
Make ourselves infinite.

Constellations of expectations
My shackles— my only relations
A walking canvas of self-destruction

Series of failures;
Dancing fire on my brain,
Torture for the game,
I stopped caring—
I fall apart at your place.

Series of abandonment;
This poem—
Who's to say I ever will.
Nothing to show off,
No father at prom.

Series of fears;
Men and their teeth,
Bitting for entertainment,
My skin is a television,
The masses are hungry.

Series of mistakes;
Memories of beheading,
All scars are self-inflicted,
Regardless of the blade's owner,
I skip the tip for the edge.

I lay alone in my bed
fireworks over my head
secret wishes, quiet prayers
another year to be a surviver

I want long hair again;
Fingers kissing my skin as they thread through waves.
I want long hair again;
Pretend I'm a mermaid under the showerhead.
I want long hair again;
Twist and tie, in different styles, a new me every day.
I want long hair again;
Use them as curtains, a shelter from thieving eyes.

I want long hair again;
But here I stand, once again,
At my scissors' mercy.
Chasing that sweet relief—
From the weight around my neck.
They say hair holds memories—
I need my mind empty.

The words build up inside like a tumor,
Ignorance will make them mean—
Spare my heart / spare my lungs
The song 'What If' is on repeat.
Regrets of the past / fears of the future / anxiety of the present
A tumor never leaves—
Healing is temporary.
Coughing up blood / letters interlaced in red
It’s a disease to keep it inside,
It’s a curse to let them fly—
I must write outside of my skin.

I admit I really like dreaming—
It’s the only place I can kiss him.
His touch—
I forget he doesn’t exist.

He doesn’t need to know my fate
When he gave my life a role—
He doesn’t need to know my face
When he made my heart whole—
He doesn't need to know my name
When he is half my soul—

When a star dies
It explodes in a pond of colour
It's glow traverses the unforgiveness of time
And a voice pronounces your name

I am far from what I muse live
Haunted by a curse of my fate
But still enchanted by your existence
Never ceasing to burn the candle of my reason

I dream of your famished touch
Your skin labored by perfection
As an artist, you create an ethereal beauty
As an artist, I preserve your beauty with words

You exist only in my lonesome thoughts
My dreams are a bucker
How could you be so far away
If only you are my serenity

Your name is an hymn for love
Star will forever self-destruct
With the hope to become you
The existence of the eternal muse

I do not hate growing older
I hate the failure's reminder
Turning into another number
No achievements to remember
My twenties are almost over
My childhood still need closure

How I wish to be born as one of his tears—
So I could travel down his cheek,
And die on his lips.

I want to fall in love, I do
But I know it’ll make you cry
When I don’t say it back
You’ll still smile
Say “it's fine”
I know it’s not—
I can’t even say it to my mom.

I want to fall in love, I do
I know it’ll be easy
Right at the first touch
But you’ll be left picking up the pieces
Of someone who self-destructs.

There’s a ballerina on the stage,
bleeding out through the whites of her costume—
the faces on the curtains are laughing—
a mirror of the world watching—
the spectacle of reds will not be washed away—
once tainted, feathers cannot be wings again.
all that’s left is rotten flesh—
once beautiful enough to make a man go insane.

I dream of dying like a ballerina—
my decay is a masterpiece—
born with broken wings, I crave a swan’s flesh—
between my teeth, I **** the remaining beauty.
my bones will be jewellery— desired—
We must **** the oysters to get the pearls.

Do not call me by that nickname,
I cannot be yours in the way you want me to—
I must give my body to the stage—
my soul belongs to the audience—
my blood will paint a dead ballerina—
hang it high above your bed,
I will haunt your dreams like you did mine.