Her Heart was the unknown force,
luring you into its galaxy,
captivating you with its beauty.
Gently holding you down,
It squeezes you with its gravity.

They call it guilt, John.
That's what the voice in the dark of the night,
would always whisper upon me.
But I was deaf, so I would never hear it.

Oh, it's just what they'll all say,
"It's not your fault",
That your brother died,
That you're a broken husk of a man.

Worry not, worry not, fair snakeskin,
fair caterpillar,
surely you, too,
will shed your skin and fly, fly away.

But he doesn't get to fly now does he?
No all he exists is,
as a sad, cold face,
dead, under the refraction of light,
that pool's death gleams.

Hmm, but you enjoy this don't you,
John, the voice said to me.
The tragic backstory, the shameless reason.
For such gleeful ecstasy, surerly,
The small price of the lie called brother,
of innocence, of life,
of something you never really had, something you never really lose,
what an even sacrifice, John, what a fair toll,
in fact how favored are you, to so enjoy,
self-flagellation.

I won't tell if you won't, she says, whispered. Why always a she and who? It finishes anyways; whether I want it to...

Spencer died,
So I can have,
my whip in hand.
That is my truth.

I like depth, but I always drown.

You're not what I was looking for, but what I found.

I don't like your words, but I like your sound.

You lifted me high, and dropped me on the ground.

How cruel is a needle,
all because you can bleed.
How safe is the sea,
all because you dont swim.

How you love me so,
all because I can dream.

It feels like the sun shines for somebody else
And the sky is blue for another person
Even the road only hardens under a pair of shoes- that is not my size
And the fire burns to thaw not the frost of mine
It has been like that for long-
That being empty is ordinary
- ignored, even
But these I can live with.
If you let your eyes shine for me
To the tame the darkness of reality
Let them be blue for me
So I would see the sky, my sky, in you
Let my warmth flow from you
To see that I need not any other road
Other than the one that leads to you

There are two types of sadness:
one, is being sad that
you write so much,
you draw so much,
you drink so much,
you sleep too much-
the other is just
a little taste of death
on the most inconvenient hour of your life,
when you lost the understanding
of the difference between
jumping on a cliff
and falling on a cliff.

So funny how I need to build courage that is never there, and suppress something that has always been dangling between the fabrics of my heart, snapping all its way through the tender corners that induce pain. My ribs do complain.
When, tell me, when will I ever see you again?

I will tell you about sadness
that is the scrap of flesh on the very tip of my toes
to the highest point of my skull.
I can tell you what about sadness-
when I lay my head back for a fortnight-
missing meals, missing knocks on my doors,
missing one’s absence inside my head,
and surviving- surviving still.
But when I write about sadness,
I shall write about you.
For sadness is also about
stories that were
never given a chance to start.

Busy people rarely ever feel sad. Why? Because sadness requires a certain depth of epiphany, a subtle but constant blow in the gut. You can never find sadness lurking in the corners of a busy office or in a library full of curious young minds.

Sadness, I think, is when the world has momentarily left its orbit to embark on a dim lit path. It is there when the day is over and the lights are out and you are left sitting in the dark feeling every bit of human. It is when you'd rather stay in for the rest of the night- and day, as well -because frankly, you have forgotten the difference.