You could say i have the heart of a miser, but you can't say I do not have one. For it beats in my chest, threatening to sweep this head off my neck with tsunamis of sickening blood. As if i had infinite emotions to gnaw at. My soul seem to be a bottomless pit, eternally craving to be fed. And I never knew how to satisfy it. I seem to be different from the others. Void of emotions. Speaking only to stir trouble, on the sorry excuse of giving myself reasons to feel. I had no clue about the inability to communicate with my mother. We hardly exchange words, and those that escape my tightly sown lips were only to spite her. But they were words from the very end of this bottomless pit, which all sums up to "I lost all I respect".

I've stated in the beginning, I have the heart of a miser; I have not forgotten the words she told me 30 odd days back. If elephants never forget, then I guess I have these ivory tusks made to cut like a hunter's spear on anything that's alive. Cut off anything that's okay. Turn everything that is okay into something that is not. Explosive cars and houses set ablaze are akin to fireworks; the only thing that seems to catch my eyes anymore. And the smoke that lingers smells like a house freshly painted; addictive. That is until they smother my skin. I can't help but cringe at the monster in the mirror. I wasn't like this. I don't know how I've come to this. I don't know why.

The words that mothers say are lessons taught to their children. So i suppose I've learnt that I am a ***** and that I'm better off dead. 30 odd days. Are you proud of me, Mum? I have not forgotten what you taught. Today you screamed. I would like to say the spit that landed on my skin burnt like acid. But truthfully, I don't feel a thing. You asked for the wrong that you've done. You screamed into my face, DO NOT CALL ME YOUR MOTHER. I AM NOT WORTHY, as yours contorted so much I could almost feel something. Mum, I'm not worthy to tell you what you've done wrong for I don't feel a tad sorry for what I turned us into. It was a mistake to give birth to me. I'm not even sure if I missed what we used to have. I can't remember what we had.

I'm sorry if this house ever burns to the ground.

Mum, I wish I wasn't a monster.

You are my
December because you seem to
     emanate a golden glow,
          quite like of parols swinging from tall streetlamps
December in how you
     brush through my hair like a cool, gentle breeze
          brought by the northeast wind of
               clear blue skies and fair weather.
December also in the way you
     wrap your arms around me
          tightly, it
               reminds me of my favorite warm, woolly sweater that
                    my dear grandma knitted for me.
        You are my
December in how you
     light up my eyes like
          the Christmas lights that twinkle on the Christmas tree
No, actually, more like the
     fireworks that set fire to
          the midnight sky on New Year's Eve
December because
     you are a great gift
          like the secret surprises tucked under the Christmas tree
     you are a sweet treat
          like a gingerbread coated with colorful sugar,
               freshly baked and toasty
     you refresh me
          like the much needed break that lasts for two weeks
    You are my
December because
     you leave me melting
          like the mini mallows sprinkled  
               on my hot choco steaming
     You are my
December because

  
I love December

Her mind is troubled and her thoughts are blurred
nights of endless crying
nights of despair
nights when life didn't seem worth living

You could never tell that beneath her "put-togetherness"
was a girl
who couldn't be in further disarray

She questions love and all that it means
her self worth hasn't been quantified
and the concept of love is foreign yet it lays beneath the fingertips
that type away at the one
who brings her the utmost happiness

Here is a girl that is broken
here is a girl that wants to believe that one day
things will be better

but life is unfair
and she has yet to have a moment of clarity
the moment of clarity that facilitates a purpose
and things are weary and unclear
so she keeps asking her self
"why?"

Here is a girl
who is the epitome of empathy
and the center of love

however, she has yet to receive
any sense of reciprocity
and until the reciprocity exists,
the world will remain to be nothing but an empty plane

Here is a girl
that has fallen to pieces
only to bring herself back together
again
and again
and again

Here is a girl
who has creativity at her fingertips,
but she needs more love, so that her creativity
can become the magic that it has always meant to be

Here is a girl
that has loved herself
and hated herself
and has endured more suffering than anything imaginable

Here is a girl
that represents suffering
that represents strength
that represents
a reason for tomorrow

1
This world is not for me.
Society and all of its greed
And pride and fears and lies,
But I see - the Fields of green.

I see the forest beyond culture's smog.
I see rivers and meadows and in them I see God,
Not society's idols corrupting my mind,
But beauty in nature, for people I have no time

2
I don't hate man, I just hate men.
I reject the crowd, receive the critics
And then, when I can, I plan
To change their lives, to change their stance.
Their pre-contemplating outlook of meta-physical well-being will be
Their posthumous regret when the trumpets sound early.
They cannot possibly want to die this surely.

So why wait, why bother, why help those who ridicule the very foundation of existence?
For better or worse, I ask myself this
And demand an answer; demand a reply.
But to answer myself this would just be a lie,
Because in the end I just can't see myself here.
Down in the underbelly while God's world is out there.
Man was meant to live and love and learn and laugh and lavish in the dirt;
YES! The wondrous Earthen soil that brings life to this otherwise wasteland of a planet!
Do I sound crazy? Fine then. I'll can-it...
But let me leave you with this.

3**
While you squander your existence, I'm flying with J.L. Seagull.
While you sit on society's thrown, you'll never reach my level of regal,
For I am king of myself, I relish in happiness
I **** the marrow out of life and think not of shame or pride or possession or power
And therefore I must leave.
I wish you all the best of luck and hope some of you learn,
That you are just playing your fiddle and watching Rome burn.

I don't know what I'm doing.
Your hands on me
Don't feel like fire
Or ice.
They feel like hands.
Your wanderings don't make me gasp
But they can make me sigh.
I wonder what she'd think if she knew.
I wonder if she'd care.
I don't tell her
In fear that she won't.
Your lips don't send lightning down my spine,
Or earthquakes through my stomach
But... they are warm
And I am lonely
And you said it was a game you played often.
All the same, I saw your eyes
I felt your fingertips-
They betrayed you,
And when I wrote you back "I'll talk to you tomorrow."
I wanted to add
"P.S. Don't love me."