it's the winter
and my fingertips are cold
my eyes are tired
and my bones feel old

it's getting harder to stay
even though you are here
follow me close
i may disappear

i dream about you
all the time
i dream about you
are you mine?

drinking again
has opened my mind
i forget things
but i won't leave you behind

every sip of alcohol
that i take
burns my throat  
and i start to ache

i dream about you
when i drink
for you, my love,
i will not sink

e.knocks

Bathed in silver
from the moonlight
that seeps through my window curtains,
I find my mind
drifting off to you,
again.

The view of starry sky,
numbs down my brain processes,
or, maybe it is the effect of my heavy eyelids
battling drowsiness

and it is funny how I still have no illusions,
that the sight of the same nightsky,
ever leads your thoughts processes to me.

And for me, all the trains of thoughts,
have a single destination
you know for me,
it is always you.

I don't know why
the moon is looking quite sad today,
maybe it has finally realised
that the place it has always known as its home
is not only his.


is anything truly ever ours?

even our lives are not just ours,
maybe that is the way of the things,
what we love today,
has been loved before,
and will be loved again.

and I still can't stop thinking
about the kiss I left on your eyelids.

and look the stars are winking and shining brighter in moon's misery
and I know I have lost coherence
when I imagine how they would look hanging in your braids

And here I can feel the quiet ache hum again,
I don't know how or when but I succumb to sleep,

and I swear I felt the moonlight kiss me,
and I swear I felt you smiling at me.

You hold my hand still,
But it is always loose
And you talk to me often,
But I know I'm not the only one.

And all those poems I sent you,
That you never bothered to read

She is just a friend,
Still her words you have kept framed.

And I don't know why I still stay.

'Cause  know I'm not the only one,
And this sadness has its hands gripping my throat,
The words you say, though, are still coherent,
But there is a void of emotions behind them

And I tell myself,
You can not recreate a moment of past
Why is that time reduces every thing beautiful to ruins

And maybe that is why I stay,
For in all this decay, I still have not forgotten
The Smell of spring.

And the words I write, no longer fits the man you have become,
So you can hold on to her words,
While I hold on the lyrics, of the music long stopped,

Hoping one day it will find its way back to me.


Till then, I shall let my friends Wonder
Why do I still stay

It is just when you have been sad for too long, you, at some point, make a home out of it. It is not intentional. It is that sometimes familiarity is as close as you get to calling something home. Like imagine it has been raining for months and You have learnt to sleep to the clatter of rains and to wake up to your window glasses being stained and one day you wake up and there is an icy sun In its full glory up in the sky. And you suddenly don't know how to react. But that is what you wanted once, right?  And now the brightness is just too cheery. Too much for you. And darkened clouds that followed you ever where and it seemed to you then that they were doing it out of pure spite,  were gone and You realise at that moment how much you miss them and how you wanted them to stay. And you try to write about it 'cause that is how you operate. Don't know what to make out of the mess? Just put it out on the page but lately you have realised that no matter what,  your pen won't move and when they do the words that come out are so blunt, so meaningless and devoid of emotions, you wonder if that is how your brain feels. Cause your writings were always a reflection of what you felt and could it be that without all those sadness to fill the empty spaces you're just hollow. Who said that numbness was a relief? for this numbness is driving you crazy and ******* you just need to feel.
When was the last time someone attempted to talk to you or vice versa? How did you start to feel so distant and how all of them have lost their distinct faces and blend into one another till you can't sense a difference. A various combination of expressions that showed concern but never understood. And it is funny how you were dying and they asked you which color of dress would look good on them and you said red. You hate red. And that is how it became too much. You grew exhausted. That is what small talks do to you. So you stopped. Then you stopped seeing point in any kind of talk. Cause they exhausted you. Pointless talk about things you don't care about. You stopped talking. Then you stopped caring. You still loved them but it did not matter. Very few thing did. That is when sadness found its root and spread its wings. You are not going to glorify it. It was bad. The crying into pillows for no reason , sitting still for minutes not doing anything, not thinking anything and then at the end of the night regretting it all over cause it was self inflected. Or so you felt. But then it got better. Less bothersome. It was always there draining your energy but at least you were not crying. You should have known then. It was a sign. That how it,  like a parasite, was draining your energy and once it was done it would leave you paralysed. And it did. And now you feel so lost and dumb. Is not it sad when you want to be sad just to feel something? You realise this. It almost makes you feel something. Almost.

poetry isn't just for white people, Vivian
isn't a girl's name, and I will
wear these white jeans past Labor Day.
we forget that we could
touch the stars if we *******
tried, but instead we are
here, drowning in atmosphere,
choking on our inhibitions.
there are ten pills tucked
in the very back of your desk;
you love them but
they're about to become a
crutch, and you are frightened.
I don't **** with that
new ****,
but it's not like you care.
I'm still the same *******
idiot, total trash, I
deleted your number
and I won't send you
snapchats,
I wonder if you
deleted my dickpics.
lost intimacy, windowsill
cacti, a Ziplock full of ******* stuffed
inside your pillowcase;
I went for a run, your
name traipsing about my
prefrontal cortex, smashing
memories, beheading roosters,
screaming incoherently about
subprime mortgages and
credit derivatives.
the government is lying about
9/11 but no one really cares;
the government is arming oppressive regimes in
Missouri but white people don't care;
would that I had such
willful ignorance, the right to
ignore the slaughter on our
front lawns.
my parents started from the
bottom, they survived in
America, decapitated birds on the doorstep.
I do not have their strength and I am
washing Xanax down with Gatorade and
refusing to apologize.

677

To be alive—is Power—
Existence—in itself—
Without a further function—
Omnipotence—Enough—

To be alive—and Will!
’Tis able as a God—
The Maker—of Ourselves—be what—
Such being Finitude!