I'd like to be a bird, you see.
And I might travel all the seven seas.
I might even reach a paradise
far away from their judging eyes.
What's paradise, you ask?
well, if you're so keen to know...
It's somewhere where I'm skinny enough,
and somewhere where your mind is clear.

"Sounds like heaven."
"Yes it is."

"Will we ever get there?"
"You know I'm too heavy to get off the ground."
"And I'm too fuddled to find my way around."

"Well, we never were meant to be a bird, you see."

I thought the cold air would help
But there's only ******* smoke
Free ****, I'm living the dream of a million burnt out lungs
with capillaries astray -

Sadness is a comfort
Happiness burns against my eyelids
It sears against the grey -

Age doesn't matter as long as you pay
Head high to keep the nausea at bay;
Visions blur, thought the alcohol in my
backpack somehow took effect
it was just the ******* smoke.

When it comes to sadness,
let yourself cry.
Lock yourself in your room
and let no one hear you.
You only get a day.

When you've finally worn your heart out
to a state of excruciating numbness,
Stop.

stop. *******. crying.

Now act like your heart
is only used for pumping blood.
It demands to be felt.
Ignore it.

Act like a *****.
Act as though nothing gets to you.
Sardonic smiles are your armour.
Sarcastic replies are your weapon.
Wield it without care.
Wield it as thought you don't give a ****
about who you hurt.
You care too much, and that is your flaw.
Flaws were meant to be hidden.

I was crying into my bed and I realised that I was completely
Alone.

And all I could think about is how
I wanted someone that I could
pour my heart into,
and they won't choke.

Do I want a lover?
No, I do not.
I just want any form of
emotional closure.
And society got me into thinking that
a bond of a romantic sort
is the best type.
But
Lover, friend, counterpart...
It does not matter.
All that matters is that I'll have
someone.
Anyone.

I do not want a lover.
I don't want to love you when
I can't even love myself.

I do not want a lover,
I just want to be loved.
(And I know it's selfish, but I frankly do not care.)

Late nights; the hidden frights
Blinks up with the bathroom lights
2am, the promises have faded,
And the soul is again jaded
"Why are you here?
You promised dear,
But now your knees are scarred
And your voice is tarred."
Spit and tears smears the broken smile,
Guilty, but only for a while.
"It's fine, my love for you
fills me up like they do"

The world spins.

Lives are all struggling, clamouring to survive.
We invent technologies,
create literature,
music,
art...

What is this drive that makes us this way?
All I could think of is that someday
we will all die,
and nothing
will matter anymore.
We are
just
tiny
specks
of the entirety of this universe,
and no matter how much we say that humans,
the **** sapiens, are the most
supreme creature in this planet,
or in this universe -
it's not true.

I fear the day when everything
will be gone,
when there'll be no one
to recognise the petty little achievements of mine;
and the kind of achievements
we humans call miracles.
I fear life, and I fear death.
Even this very moment, I'm fearful
of the uncertainties,
of what might happen.
Everyone is.
But we still breathe,
doing things that'll all be
forgotten later on without giving up.

Here we are on the road.
We must be going somewhere.

Even empty air
seems interesting
when you've got stuff to do.
I just stare
at the ceiling,
but oh, what a view.

Long I had tried,
to make sense of what plagues
the minds of those in love.
Long I had cried,
thinking myself far too rational
to fall apart under your gaze.
But now mystery
brings out a certain charm in you
that I've gotten so fond of.
Unaligned symmetry;
my half-a-heart and yours, never
a perfect fit, but a bittersweet pair.

If the world was made up of sand,
could we ever count them all?
Buildings, ceilings,
everything sand;
Humans too, and animals as well.
All crumbled to dust,
would anyone try?
Would anyone care to count
the dust we'll be reduced into?
If we're all dust,
are our numbers finally infinite?
Does the count stretch on forever,
are we never-ending swirls of dust?
Well, one way to know,
someone must count.
There must be someone
who's willing to do.
Oh, wait.
You?
Do you want to count our molecules?
Brilliant! Go ahead!
Just let us crumble everything up!
Huh?
What do you mean, that you'll be dust too?
You can't disintegrate,
you've got work to do!
What do you mean you quit?
You didn't even start yet!
Hmm...
Well, it's too late,
we've already started crumbling up.
We'll be gone, and you'll be gone too.
Yes, this is it.
Goodbye, everyone.
I guess we'll never know
if we were infinite.
I would've
liked
to -

Fairy light glow
in a dark suburban scene,
there's a vinyl record playing
and the photos blur out

into colours;
it's not bright
cause we never were meant to be.
Faces washed out
into meaningless figures -
as if you were never here.

You speak too quietly that I forget you are suffering.
You move too silently yet your touch is deafening.
Your gaze burns heatedly, it should be frightening,
yet your touch comes too gently, still terrifyingly captivating.

I reach blindly, caught up in the whole of you, searching.
I grasp tightly, not knowing what I found, yet still wanting.
I am confused. I do not know the depth of your soul, the extent of it.
I cannot comprehend it. Yet I let myself sink slowly.
I am drifting. I am not afraid.

I pried out my own skin
wide open
with needles dipped
in cheap india ink; I dabbed
at the black mixed with red
staining my fingers.
Do I do this for the pain,
or to get the poison trickling in
to my skin, to my veins?
A symbol, an alphabet.
Vast meanings that I tried to bestow
upon them hours later
really means nothing at all.

There's the cause and the effect,
which really goes both ways.
The pain for the gain
of the blurred out ink under my skin,
and the gain for the pain
of the sharpness prickling

my ankles, both legs
bare the stain of alcohol tinged
nights.
The skin beneath my eyelids
a darkened haze;
but the tattoo still burns
needle-sharp against it all.