different isn’t special.

in fact it’s quite very normal.

ironically it’s the same for everyone.

the glint in your eyes in the moonshine
are wrought now, with terror and scorn
what once was yours is no longer mine

a gentle rain turned to blurry lines
a spark grown, the fire now borne
the glint in your eyes in the moonshine

once one eye shut, now two are blind
facing catastrophe with your mind torn
what once was yours is no longer mine

windblown, torrential in the same kind
sunrise no longer leads to morn'
(with) the glint in your eyes in the moonshine

prostrate in pain, hands now behind
a final cry, alone and forlorn
what once was yours is no longer mine

a whisper from hate, a loveless sign
finally, clear skies now adorn
the glint in your eyes in the moonshine
what once was ours, is no longer mine

“We better just stop right now.”

the slogan of betrayal woven into a warning sign

but we are always too late to see it

as we crash past the red lights into the traffic of time

where mistakes cannot be rectified and problems cannot be solved

as the warning sign gets off one stop earlier than it should

and you are left on a one-way trip to nowhere

as you watch the stop sign crash into the front of the

mirrors
questing to see
only our face
in their cracked mirages
and shattered dreams

windows
struggling to see through
one another
as we attempt to open
ourselves out to the
frosty winds of the world

doors
locking everyone else out
locking ourselves in
slamming shut
getting slammed shut

drawers
infinitely tall
full of unopened
chests and unsolved puzzles
rusty keys broken
in rustier locks

lights
trying to
glow and glimmer
in the pressing darkness
refusing
to be snuffed out

walls
some graffiti
some paintings
others ***** stains and *****

we are but furniture
used users using

we are but a home
with cracked walls windows mirrors
but we are a home

we are but humans
with broken minds souls hearts

but we are human.

when your dreams
fall
from the sky and die
don’t blame yourself

when your hopes
bleed
out on the floor in front of you
don’t cry

when the lightbulb
fuses
and everything goes dark
it’s not your fault

It’s theirs.

They are the ones that
tug at your laces
claiming to tie them
when they really are
pulling them out
and pulling you down.

They are the ones that
appear like guardian angels
too good to be true
truly too good
then the shaft of their spear
is already through your heart.

They are the ones that
welcome themselves into
your home
and crush the lights with
their words.

They are the ones that
enter your mirrors
and claim to be you.

Although if you see yourself
then please

switch the lights back on.

your eyes are like the sun

if I gaze too long
I get hurt eventually

your eyes are like the moon

they reflect my fire
the lustre isn’t yours

walking down cold streets
with colder faces

i am unnerved
as my own cold face begins
to crack and fall apart

i am not surprised
when i shatter and collapse
their cold faces turn colder

i am pleasantly shocked
as their frost freezes me to the ground
and i become the soles of their feet

i thought you were my star in the sky

but apparently

you were just an amber traffic light

and you’ve turned red

and I can’t even jaywalk.

there's a catch in my throat
a lump, a bump, a sudden
crosswords of air and thought
and the notes are suspended
midair, empty, a vibration
with direction but no motivation

there's a catch in my throat,
a hurdle in the road, a pothole
of accidents and apologies
and the music abruptly pauses
a welcoming dissonance,
warm but jarring

there's a catch in my throat,
and I can no longer sing,
and the rhythm has tumbled
and fallen, and I cannot catch my breath,
but still the silence goes on,
and I can only listen

you look out the glass pane
as your own face is reflected back and forth
as your voice echoes back and forth
in the fragile wind

you can see the world
but you can only see
as you fingers press hard against the transparent block
and they can only press

you can only hear
as your ears are flush against the colourless wall
sounds of your breathing echoing
in the fragile world

you can only hear yourself
so you scream

and the world shatters around you like the fragile wind and your voice is out to the world raging like storms and blazing like fire and the glass shatters and finally finally

you fall out the window

when you hit
that note
my heart shattered

autumn leaves like
windchimes in the
biting winds

dark skies like
mornings held high
to high noon
to full moon

and those eyes
of dark skies and autumn leaves
of windchimes and mornings

i gasp for air
as the wind stops
and the trees fade

when you held that note
to high noon
to full moon

we draw the curtains as if
no one can see us
but the shadows imprinted
onto the fabric thinner than
your lies
tells us the whole story

we shut the doors as if
no one can get in
but really, all it takes
is one soft knock
and the walls come crumbling
down
down
down

we lock the gates as if
no one can climb over
but the seemingly sharp
spines are as blunt
as your cheap words,
cheaper than that
metal gate you bought

we pull the blinds as if
no one can pull them apart
but it’s us that’s blinded
to the purpose
of windows

we think we’re keeping them out
we’re just locking ourselves in

it’s the dawn
finally broken
into half

the sun sett(l)ing
down forever

the moonshine fading
in the dimming glares
of the stars

i can see everything
in the imminent darkness
that is now

my tears
are black like
the sky against the world

my smile is tired
of the frowns and
the laughter

as the clock strikes 12
and i fall asleep (forever)

i am rudely awakened by
the sun screaming
into my half closed eyes

the threads of time are not
ours to keep, nor cut nor pull
but we can do our best to
hold on to whatever string we
have, even if it’s our noose

the sands of destiny are not
ours to feel, nor touch nor soak
but we can do our best to
flip the hourglass over when
the golden liquid nearly falls

the edges of space are not
ours to bend, nor mould nor shape
but we can do our best
to smoothen out the folds
when the corners begin to curl

we cannot control everything
but what we can we must.

the beads of memories
strung onto the lines of time
are ours to keep, cut and pull
and we must collect them
no matter shiny or dull

the water of truth hidden deep
within the rivulets of destiny
is ours to feel, touch and soak,
and find our true fate within
the droplets of realisation

the ink of reality smudged onto
the aged papyrus of space
is ours to bend, mould and shape
and we have all the power
to write our own stories

finding freedom in boundaries is true release

lay your cards down on the table
the other one picks theirs up and holds it
up against their face the back of the cards
shining and shimmering in the dim candlelight
you know what they’ll do
they know what you’ll do

the rounded edges of the cards
thank you for your perfect trimming
pricking your fingers trying to
make your way around the points and corners
snipping and snapping the scissors go
one by one cloaking them in softness and warmth

the curtains sway in the sharp wind
the fireplace crackling in the clacking cracks
of the damp and dark walls, leaning
to the freshly opened smells of the decks
as they clatter around as clutter, filling up
your senses, sending you into a slight delirium

they take one of their cards
and let it float back down to the wooden tabletop
landing beside the bouquet of blood roses
a picture of the perfect gift appears
wrapped in all its splendour and glory: a ring of
pure diamond, of pure gold, of pure love

you happily dish out a stack of gilded cards
with no care or concern; you let some flutter to
the ground for the others to pick while they
eye your paper money with delicate hungry
hands hanging around, silently slipping some
into their own deck as you smile

the candle flickers as they play another card,
a portrayal of a house, a quiet place to call home
with children, hundreds, dancing and skipping
and being children, and all you can and want to do
is let the cards stream out of your hand, your
laugh lines creasing your already weathered mirror

the game goes on, no qualms about stopping,
and neither do you, as your wrinkles take over
your face in a sweep, with them mirroring yours,
the wind getting wilder, your hair in a storm,
a stack of chaotic cards in the middle, spiralling
about the room in a frenzy as the candle goes out
and darkness ensues and you reach out for them
in the now growing mess of a restaurant and the
curtains blow past your face windows shattering
and all you can think about is them them them them them and when you finally reach the other side of the table and breathe

no one is there. the table flipped over
like a game long lost and forgotten
and all the cards lying dead and roses pooling on the floor and oh how you want to follow suit;
but this game is too fun and you go on to the next
round, sweeping card edges off your suit.

the ever-expanding walls
run from me, as I chase down
impossibilities and pipe
dreams, my feet never touching
the ground, not even
once. upon a time

there lived a boy in his
head, and in his head he stayed,
blind to reality but inclined to
imagine. he knew not once
of worldly torment, yet was
all too familiar with that which
the ever-expanding walls ran
from-

the truth.

once, it was like a knife
grabbing at my insides,
cutting up my thoughts,
my heart, my mind,
a clear line of chaos spliced
into this line of fire

now, it is but a teardrop
left uncried, sitting on my
eyelid, a muted feeling
that rings harmoniously
through my soul.

awkward smile sticky wave
both stuttering in faked honesty and false sincerity
words crafted and sewed to fit around the other
perfectly like a blackened cardigan
lined with sweet sweet poison

killer eye contact keeps you out
and keeps you coming back for more
the risk and danger of falling into the grasps
of a worse person than you
is tantalising like munching on melatonin morsels
while dancing away from death’s ***** door

when backs are turned
smiles die and waves collapse
into the sweaty twisting of fingers
and the twisting of mouths into large long grins
ready for the first conversation the first contact
traps ready they turn around

with even bigger smiles
starting with the sharpened hook
of a fairytale introduction where
one came from antarctica and the other from hell
giggles and laughter only serve to make hair stand
cringing inside so much their stomach is a braid

poison and sarcasm don’t drip like honey
they slide and slither and burn like snakes
in the grass, camouflaged in the already dark night
up they go into your brain your mind your soul
feasting on your fear your weakness your love

then comes the main course the connection
the stories of broken childhoods in succession
not stopping for a tear or a comment
flowing like the poison flowing like the river
of thoughts that fall from your head
as the story goes on, getting stuck in the endless
ebb and flow and tide and spiral of hypnosis

it’s too late when you realise
you’re in his palm his hand his fingers
a puppet for pain of pain by pain
the strings no your own strings
wrapped around your own hands your own feet
your mind caught in its own trap

just a tunnel to the other side
a flight of steps in a thunderstorm of rickety
elevators to be stepped on and off
crumbling to dust in the very end
an underpass to the above, just the cement
crusted and turned to stone frozen
in time, unmoving, resigned

and finally you sleep
in your own cocoon you made for him
tighter and tighter the strings are
the more tired you become
falling into the eternal rest
barely slipping from the dancing fingers of death
slipping past it into a place
your place, faraway
lost in your own dreams and nightmares

march on brave warriors
feet drumming the earth
draw rhythm out of pain
the metronome of life
the right of way is
your right today

march on brave soldiers
veterans who have seen
everything but nothing
more and nothing yet
cry for the lost
weep for the found

march on brave children
tiny palms hold Atlas' weights
unbeknownst to them
they carve the cliffs and valleys
that they will live and die in

march on brave souls
who live on in us
in the tolling feet of warriors
in the tearful eyes of soldiers
and the tested palms of children

march on march on march on march on

march on bravely
march on knowing full well that we will
march on with you as you
march on.

it is tiring.

watching their faces smashed
against the windows smiling
almost aggressively laughing

having to not hurt everyone
as i trip about corners and words
and deadly sentences
and yet still get there
get to “friendship”

standing in an
unending burst
of my own energy
just to calm theirs

pulling up my
****** muscles to
create a paper thin emotion
a semblance of contentment
just a semblance

cascading upon me
a pool of thoughts and opinions
i never asked for

i am tired.

of them.

you think that flowers are pretty and the forest
smells fresh and they are all made for you
just for you. you think that the green grass is soft
and the seas and skies and sand are all for you.
you think that nature is generous and kind
and good and pure just like you

i also wonder about humanity’s ever-increasing
records of stupidity, their eyes blind with anger
entitlement suspicion frustration the heat of rage
miniature suns burning and blistering and
destroying everything they see touch anything
in reach, thinking that all is theirs and theirs is all

they don’t see the blood on the floor and the
bodies lying all around. they step on them like
pillows on a road, rolling over them like the stones
they are, don’t see the teeth and eyes and edges
lying all around, all the traps biding their time,
waiting to crush a few pebbles

the true monster has yet to show, eyes shut
but not asleep, dormant but not oblivious
waiting in the shadows of the air and the black
days that the humans pass by like the stones they
are, blood pooling bodies rotting, and the humans
can’t care won’t care couldn’t care less as they
continue to fall

time is ticking and so is their patience, a silent
bomb waiting to be free of the grasps of dirt
and soil soiling its body, when finally nature strikes
back, strikes hard, as the humans fall ten by ten,
grass blades flying and petals dying, when nature
reclaims what has been stolen

nature will come back, and erase humanity like
moss on a stone, eating and destroying and
poisoning their already heavy hearts and souls,
dragging them over down into the earth, till
their blood has replaced theirs and their bones
have melted back where they came from,
and humans finally realise the moment just before
they fall from the earth, that it was all in their minds

they never owned nature, they were the ones that
needed her

nature never needed humans

they’re just mouldy stones at the bottom of a
fish tank long forgotten

there’s so many of them it’s almost impossible
to tell who’s living and who isn’t because of all the
sweat and stench of fear and deodorant
that masks their heavy breathing and
heavier hearts - burdens that they carry around
as if they were important. if only they knew that
wounds heal and scars fade, maybe, just maybe
they would already be flying

but of course you can see the halos and the horns
and the tails and the wings that flicker like
their souls in their hollow chests, only the slightest hint of their singular intention - to try to fly
but it’s the halos and horns and tails and wings that truly prevent them from flying

they are jealous of the birds that walk above and wonder how they fly - their hollow bones and hollower hearts uplift them to the black skies and
blacker stars. but these people full of blood and
bones and lifelessness are like stagnant stones
infested with dying moss, littering the ground like
ugly splotches on an ugly painting

only some know the way to hover and float above
everyone, instead of taking in they give out,
give out death and anger and hate and frustration,
let it flow like a river, washing down off away
the pain, like a stone caught in the gentle floods of
rage, leaving a trail of love and loss in the depths

these are the people who will rise up and rise
higher than anyone ever because they
know how to let go let off let be and
who don’t need wings to fly because they
know that memories are boulders and grudges are
killers and only when they give their whole
heart and soul then do they take off and



fall, fall when they realise they had asked for
too much, way too much, and realise that flying
has its own burdens, a paradise in hell, a curse
with the shading of a blessing, floating in the air
for all who reach out for to, and realise in the end:

walking was always enough.

it was a silent splash
into the river
and all its bewitching curves

as it sank into his pores
his mouth his ears
his eyes his body

as one second of purity
washed countless years
of killings and being killed

cleansing him from the inside-out

then he sees him
on the other side

again.

for a moment they freeze
in their shock

the quiet ripples are no longer
silent as they scramble out to shore
as they ignore their bare bodies
as they reach for their veteran
killing machines

and for another moment

he watches him crawl up to shore
while he aims it at his head
his finger at the trigger

but in this moment

in their nakedness

stripped of identity

they are one and the same

they are no different

there is no violence no hurt no war no sadness no killing no hate no guns no knives no punches no kicks no grenades no trenches no shrapnel no-

and with a muted splash
he feels the river
of blood running down
his head

as the moment of realisation
slips away

you’d said I’d broken your heart
said it was all my fault
said it was because of me

you flaunt the scars on your heart
blaming me for the crosses and trails of blue and black

telling me how irresponsible I am while your hand fumbles in my pocket for my heart while you’re just reaching for my wallet

squeezing your arteries and veins
pouring it all in a wine cup
sipping it in front of everyone
and it’s my fault that you’re a vineyard

putting your legs on the table
boasting about the abrasions on your knees
bragging about the finger marks around your neck
and it’s my fault that you live in a brothel

swaggering about in your “cheap” designer nightgown
gloating about your lipstick that isn’t waterproof
and it’s my fault you’re not a trending makeup tutorial vlogger

you can go on and on
but why should I listen

when you were the one who juiced the life out of my heart made me kneel before you choked me till my neck caved in turned me into a loveless prune painted my face red with your blood

how can you say all that
when you’re really the murderer here

they look at it like x marks the spot
in a cradle of apprehension they are caught
in a chrysalis of fear and self-fulfilling prophecies
disturbed sleep descends like cold blankets on colder memories

they fiddle with the dirt with their calloused toes
an imprint of hope on the sands with their soles
the fleeting winds chide them with gales in the night of day
once a broken mind, a broken heart you’ll stay

turned head twisted neck on the floor broken back
from the burdens of many, their condolences in a sack
tugged along for many years to come,
a mission long lost, aimless as the sun
travelled paths leave marks like many stains
of fights long lost and won, of broken limbs and pain
weathered faces carved into fallen pebbles chipped off a boulder
made for something big, something more, just resting on your shoulders

“I used to love too.”
My words leave cuts
On your already dead body
In my ****** arms.

The rubble of your bones
And the destruction of your
Lovely face
Leave cuts on my dead body.

The failure(s)
is/are on my part.

It’s all
my fault.

A touch of my finger
Leaves nothing but nothing
behind.

A breath from my lips
Kills and rots all life
That it reaches.

A shiver on my spine
Is the electric chair for
All that is loved.

A tear from my head
Floods cities storms worlds
And all I can do is cry.

As you bleed out on the floor
You flood my heart with your
Sweet, sweet blood.

And I enjoy every last bit
As you fade.
As I fade.

And I cry.

True love’s kiss
is the spindle on the spinning wheel.

I used to love too.

not a stirring storm, rather
a lake in crisis, thunderstorm
rhythm in motion, my body
is used to the churning

acidic vandalism of the inner
walls, scars like stars in the
midnight sky, constellations
of hurt, trapped within the
observatory I am

soon enough, the familiar
pain eases itself through
the rusted pipes, leaking,
faulty, unfeeling cold
like stalagmite formations

it returns home, unfortunately,
again, and I am no stranger to
the wintry tendrils that have
replaced my blood, that give me
life that isn't worth living

my digits twitch and spasm as
the metallic river snakes to
my extremes, shores of icicles
erupting to the surface

if am numb to the numbing anger
then why do my fingertips hurt?