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Corvus Jul 2016
Spending a month in a hospital teaches you a lot about people.
The doctor that told me to shave my head or she wouldn't treat me,
The nurses that spent forever chatting to me
And giving me supportive advice about how my illness doesn't define me.
The woman who was given a terminal cancer sentence
And chose not to pay attention to it and defied it anyway.
How she sat next to me on my bed,
Told me that all suffering is valid,
And just because I'm not dying, doesn't mean I don't get to complain.
How she complains more about her skin problems
Than she ever complained about her cancer,
And that's OK, because pain rarely follows rules.
I never even learned her name,
But she gave me the words I hold most closely to me
On those days when I want to fall asleep and never wake up.
I'm allowed to scream and shout and rage against the pain
And the unfairness of it happening to me.
I just have to make sure I know where the line is
Between giving my darkness a voice and pitying myself.
Corvus Jun 2016
I could love you, but it'd mean getting no air until you left,
Because seeing you takes my breath and the oxygen around me away.
I could love you, but it'd mean you peeling off the scars
You imprinted on me, and letting them bleed on you again.
I writhe in agony and you writhe in pleasure,
And I'm not sure I have enough unbitten skin left to give you.
I could love you, but I'd be loving a ghost
That haunts my heart like it's the place you were buried.
And if I keep your memories buried there,
How long until the putrefaction spreads out?
I could love you, but it'd mean seeing the monster
Crawl out of your skin as soon as dawn breaks.
Corvus May 2016
I wonder if it could transpire, if we could acquire the desire
To create a pyre from the broken shards of our hearts
And start a higher ambition to perspire.
Or would it make sense to relent, give help to each self
As opposed to drenching our spent flesh till nothing's left?
I can't answer that, see, 'cause for me this is the only seam
Keeping the link from 'You' and 'I' to 'We,' and that's my utmost need.
I crave you, and no matter how true this is, your kisses are like drops of
***** dew in a morning of fulfilled wishes with no offense to use.
I would never let you down, but you still frown because you can't say the same,
That in a world filled with pain you'd keep me the clown and ****** at me the blame.
Right now, I hardly even care, because the distance between 'here' and 'there' is
Too long, and I'm not strong enough to scare away the fact that you're air.
I can't really say whether or not these feelings will ever go away,
But until then I hope you stay because it may be that you have a debt to pay.
Or maybe it's mine. I don't care, I don't mind,
I'll stay inside time itself if it means I can remain behind.
Just teach me how to be more, because I'm not sure if my core personality
Can be of a sore young man facing the same boring door.
It's a coffin, and no-one could hammer the nails in like you do,
The finality could never be questioned by anyone but you.
So please lay me to rest, dressed in my best so no-one can request
To see the last defense of a jester too happy to die of stress.
'Cause I swear I would never make it without you. I wouldn't know
That there'd be nowhere to go so whatever I have, you can take it.
Even if it means I'm forsaken, I'll make it my goal
To explain to God why a woman lies next to my soul.
And if you ever successfully pry the coffin open again,
I'd find a way to wake up just to greet you with a softly-spoken end.
Corvus Nov 2016
Sometimes I don't know how you love me.
How you can put up with this sick mind of mine
That never gives us a reprieve.
I can never even be alone with you,
Because I see shadows of ghosts on the walls,
Shadows of trauma left behind to haunt me.
The truth is simply that I'm never me when we're alone.
I'm either too scared of becoming the animal
That rips you apart from the inside;
Or I'm too scared of being so fragile that I crumble to dust.
I can't feel vulnerable around you, I get too exposed,
Like my entire body is a nerve, and any connection to you will hurt.
And when that happens, what do I do?
I can't run to your arms for comfort if touch is agony.
Honestly, half the time, I pretend you're just a stranger,
Because it's so much easier to feel like I don't love you.
Like I'm not making the woman I love the victim of my animosity
Or the recipient of my degradation.
Half the time, I'm not even listening
When you tell me it's OK, we don't have to do this, it's OK.
Half the time, I'm already drowning.
Corvus Apr 2016
What ghost do I see before me?
You drop to me in
Shackles and chains,
But were you not free?
Can the chains not be broken?
They're deeply rooted
From you to me.
Do these shackles not open?
Why, ghost, do you drag me with you?
I watch you dig up
And unrest earth;
A coffin I'm to climb into?
What fate awaits in here?
You once told me that
Death was free,
So why do you blanket fear?

What ghost do I see before these?
You came to me in
Sorrow and pain,
But were you not in peace?
Can the pain not be spoken?
The roots are deep
Embedded, yes,
But can't the earth be broken?
Why, ghost, can't you take me with you?
I watch you fade
Into memory,
But I want to fade too.
What fate awaits me there?
You once showed me that
Death is free,
So why am I slave to the air?
Another old write, 2008 I think, another shift from my usual style.
Corvus Jan 2017
There are phases when I sleep less than I usually do.
Bouts of insomnia that stretch too thin,
Making me feel like I'm half-mad, paranoid to the fullest,
And even more unwilling to fall asleep.
Sometimes I can't sleep facing my room
Because I think I can see the shadow in the darkness.
And sometimes I can't sleep facing the wall
In case I feel it sneaking up behind me.
Lying on my back is never helpful,
And lying on my stomach makes me nauseous.
So I sit up and I read until my eyes feel like anchors,
But I still don't fall asleep.
No-one ever told me how painful and exhausting it is to be alive.
Not to live, just to be alive, to be breathing and functioning.
How after the wounds have healed and I feel relatively human,
I'll still find myself terrified of the dark, of touch, of sleeping.
How randomly it all comes, how I can fall asleep happily,
But wake up choking on my own panic.
Sometimes I think healing isn't a process, it's a virus;
It takes over you, and your body fights against it valiantly,
But eventually it takes over you, and you're not you anymore.
You're forever symptomatic of healing.
Corvus Jul 2016
The thing about spending almost a decade
In social isolation is you forget what's normal.
Imagine my shock when my friend casually pulls me close to her,
A half-hug, friendly embrace.
No context needed, because touches don't always hold
Some deep, meaningful intention.
Yet for the past almost a decade, that's been my reality.
How rare the hugs, how they only ever follow extreme sadness
Or loneliness, the desire for comfort and support.
How I can never reach out to touch someone
Unless I've done it a thousand times before,
And even then, it's an intentional act of love.
Every movement of every muscle is planned in advance,
To minimise the fearful, pounding beats of my heart.
For someone like me, where anxiety floods through all my veins,
I don't know the meaning of the word 'casual'.
And I don't know if I'll ever learn it.
Corvus Feb 2017
I've needed glasses since I was 11 years old,
And I never wore them until a few weeks ago.
I was afraid of being bullied,
So I spent my entire school years with blurred vision,
Sitting close to the whiteboards,
Or sneakily copying the words from my friends' notebooks.
And now I have glasses and the world is clear and pristine.
Or it would be if they weren't constantly smudged and *****.
No matter how clean I get them,
Three minutes later they've attracted more smudges, clumsy fingerprints.
My point is, helping yourself is the right thing to do,
But it doesn't always mean the quality of your life will be better.
This is, without a doubt, the stupidest poem I've ever written. And let me tell you, those last few lines are added onto it so that the poem isn't just about me whining about my glasses, but that's exactly what this poem is about. I hate glasses.
Corvus Dec 2016
Love is like water.
It has no colour, no smell, no taste.
It is neutral in everything.
There is no joy in love, nor any sorrow.
The only thing we gain from love itself
Is the relief, like drinking a cool glass of water
On a hot, relentless day, or for some,
A desperate need for quenching the thirst
Of one who was dying of dehydration.
Besides that, all else is down to the person you love;
What you love about them is what turns the water blue, red,
Or the colour of galaxies.
Corvus Dec 2016
They raised me to be who I am,
And I could never have been any different.
They spent countless hours nurturing me and cherishing
Every achievement throughout my life.
I loved them so much, and I'd have done anything for them,
Will still do anything for them, because I knew they loved me back.
Until they pushed me away from them,
Sent me falling through the sky and got the hell away from me
As though I was nothing to them anymore,
Never had been their little boy.

And I fall through clouds like they don't want to be near me,
And I fall until the details below me come into focus.
I cry when I see the city, the buildings, the people.
I cry because I know now why I was created.
They come closer to me as I move closer to them,
And I can feel my insides start to churn,
And then it burns before I've even reached the ground.
I'm blinded by the brightness of my own incineration,
And with my last thoughts I beg everyone below me,
Though they can't hear me under the roar of death,
"Please don't look at the light."
Corvus Apr 2017
When I started getting sick,
My school attendance dropped week by week.
It was a painfully slow process;
A day here and there turned into a few days,
Turned into a week, until I spent weeks off school.
My friends dropped even slower, even more painfully.
The ones I'd made at that school disappeared
Like the world's greatest magician collective.
And the ones who I'd known for years...
Well, they were too busy living their own lives.
They saw me here and there, and it made me happy when they did,
In the same way that rare glimpses of gold make a poor man smile.
But eventually the darkness of loneliness devoured me entirely,
And I receded away from everyone while blaming them.
In those days, I was a zombie in all aspects of life,
And the Internet was the only time I had a reprieve.
I was a hollow shell, grunting one-word answers to parents,
While discussing my favourite shows with online friends.
And without that online presence, I know I'd have ended it
With the shadowy hand of depression passing me the knife.
I never would've made it this far,
Where eight years have passed and I'm still close to those friends,
Where I've met up with some of them
And overcome my anxiety in ways I never thought possible.
To many, the Internet is for shallow, brainless people,
But for many, it's a lifeline, and every #selfie smile I see
Is a person thriving instead of wilting.
This is less about my favourite thing about the Internet, and more a story involving the Internet, but even so, I think the message is the same.
Corvus Nov 2016
It's too easy to be a poet sometimes.
It's too easy to get lost in the words,
To expand your vocabulary until you're in a world
So different to reality that none of the pain reaches you.
And sometimes I think my biggest shame isn't what I carry,
It's what I express onto paper and share with others.
Every metaphor is a piece of armour, metal and shimmering in the sun,
Beautiful but, most of all, protective of me.
The truth is, I wasn't attacked by shadows on walls,
Or poltergeists that wreak havoc on my existence.
The truth is, one day three men attacked me,
And I've been covering up the truth in poetry ever since.
See, if you can turn humans into gargoyles,
Twist them into these evil, mythological beings,
You can pretend it's all just written art,
And whatever the reader says is what is.
That these demons from a level of Hell so dark
That it must be located inside of a black hole,
They're creative entities whose sole purpose in a poem
Is for the reader to interpret them how they see fit.
But whenever I write about those demons, I'm not a poet.
I'm the writer equivalent of the guy getting high in his dark, lonely room,
Blocking out memories in words just fantastical enough
To pretend that nothing ever really happened.
Metaphor-less for once, but still practicing the art of doublespeak.
Corvus Feb 2017
Sometimes it's in your voice, the words you whisper;
They drive me crazy with lust, with desire.
With anything you want to call it.
A catalyst for ***, a gateway drug to a world of
Never-ending thirst begging to be slaked,
Masquerading as Heaven.
But I hear the devil in the soft corners of your accent,
And I see fires blazing behind your eyes,
Lighting up the dark brown into a molten gold
That beckons me to drown in them.
Gold is the colour of halos, you tell me,
Of deity-like regalia, divine and beautiful.
Gold isn't the colour of demon attire,
So I swim in the depths of those flame-filled eyes.
Corvus Apr 2016
Bed sheets become red sheets,
Pillows becomes tear catchers,
No dream catchers here because only nightmares live,
Feasting on wakeful exhaustion.
Deflated bouncy castles for intestines,
White blood cells searching frantically in enclosed darkness.
Enemy invaders seeping into blood, bone and muscle
As the warriors remain trapped in sticky villi.
Drug dependency is a permanent solution
And overdosing is a consistent caregiver for sleep.
Nausea is a rebellious, suicidal last stand
To go down with the invaders as they're taken out.
A seven year war fought inside your body
With no visible battle lines drawn is lonely.
My skin is pockmarked, riddled with the craters of bombs
Fired from all sides with no mercy for the land.
Sometimes I can't help but wonder what'll **** me first:
The invaders or my body's own troops.
Probably the crappiest thing I've ever written, but it was written while I was exhausted, overdosing on medication and in agony, so it's pretty accurate in its insight.
Corvus Nov 2016
One grave to be opened up.
Two urns to be placed inside.
Three remnants of loved ones to forever rest.

One headstone to be adorned with three inscriptions,
Engraved words on stone as cold as the chills of death;
Names that can't be whispered without feeling the heart ache
With the hollow pit of loss, a black hole of despair.

Two family members following Death in quick succession,
As if they had already decided not to separate from each other.
Yet the comfort those thoughts bring to the living
Fall short, blocked out by the deeply-felt loss.

Three loved ones now eternally together;
Two vulnerable daughters and their ever-loving mother.
Corvus Mar 2017
There are times when I'm overcome by this feeling,
That I want to die before I turn 30.
I don't know why I've become so fixated by the number,
Maybe because it's just over five years away,
And five years flies by in an instant
Without me making any progress with getting better.
My life stopped existing at 16,
So I still have this childish, biased view of age,
Where anything anywhere close to the halfway point
Of the average life expectancy feels 'old'.
I'm just so afraid of blinking and realising
I've missed out on my only chance of youthful enjoyment.
And there are people in their 30s who climb Everest,
Who jump out of planes for fun and who travel the world,
So I know it's stupid.
But it feels like five years from now
I'll be wrinkled, with cracking bones and a stomach
Too weak to swallow adventure.
Apologies to anyone 30+ who are offended. It's not old, but sleeping through your late teens/early twenties and then realising you're not too far off from your 30s is a ****** feeling.
Corvus Oct 2016
There's a time, somewhere between 12am and 6am,
When all artistic, damaged or insomniatic souls
Feel like they're completely alone
Even though we're all awake and feeling the same thing.
12am is still too loud, still too car engines and shouting,
And 6am is too light, too exposing and awake, aware.
It's blackness but for the starlight puncturing holes in the sky,
That's when the magic arises and enchants us.
The way the moon looks at us and begs us to untrouble our weary hearts,
So we do it, and we do it willingly.
She is the most unfaithful lover, and it is beautiful.
How she cherishes each whispered secret so deeply
That it leaves a crater on her being.
How she takes on our pain unflinchingly,
And only needs 28 days to feel whole again.
There's a time, somewhere between 12am and 6am,
When the most trapped souls can feel such freedom.
Not entirely convinced that insomniatic is a word, but it should be.
Corvus Apr 2017
Stars sprinkle the inky night sky
Like crumbs of diamonds on a still, midnight ocean.
I am not afraid to be here, alone,
In the vastness of twilight.
For these few moments, time is as long
As the space between those stars,
And as empty, too.
The uncertainty that sunrise will follow.
As sure as the sun is destined to rise everyday,
When there's only darkness surrounding you,
Pierced slightly by the silvery glow of moonlight...
You're all alone and helpless.
You only have the vague hope that the sun will return.
And as I sit here now, star-gazer,
Faceless nomad on the damp grass;
I feel immortal, and I am afraid
That I will always be alone with the stars.
Corvus Apr 2016
I still remember her house vividly;
It was always messy, clothes and toys littering the floor
While the cats wandered by whenever they pleased.
There was a beautiful doll's house that she cherished so much
That she let me play with as she spoke to my parents in the kitchen.
Guitar-playing was a passion of hers,
And I'd sit, transfixed, as she sang along to the songs she played,
With a wide grin on her face, that was her home.
Now it's not.
It's never going to be her home again,
Because now she lives in a home for old people with health problems.
She had a breakdown after the death of her sister
And no-one could give her the help she needed, so she went away
Where her loved ones thought she'd be well looked after.
There the staff kept her locked in her room,
Mind atrophied from the solitude they forced upon her
Except for the times they shoved antipsychotics that she didn't need down her throat.
No-one visited her. How could they?
Her son insisted she stay in her home city
Even though everyone in the family lived in another.
My mother couldn't see her own sister, busy being a carer for me and her mother,
Not for years, and by then it was too late.
She'd fallen over, broken her hip and banged her head,
And she suffered through the agony for three days,
Until my mother found out and demanded they take her to hospital.
Then the home was shut down and she lives somewhere else,
Only five minutes away where she's visited often.
But it's all too late.
Once lively, outgoing, big booming laughter that filled the hallways,
She's now timid and frail, she's aged twenty years in only six.
There are no passions, only forced smiles
Dotted here and there, on rare occasions, with genuine glimpses of happiness.
And I'd love to tell you that I'm writing this for her,
Because I love and miss her and want to document the downfall of a woman so wonderful.
But I'd be a liar, because this write is as much about me as it is about her.
Every time I look at her, I can't help but wonder how long I have left
Until I'm in the same place as her.
A brief summary of my auntie's breakdown, and my own selfish reflections on the subject.
Corvus Oct 2016
I'm not sure where you went wrong,
But I know where I went wrong
To have you back here in my arms again.
The spent feeling, the hollowness in my chest
Because I don't have any heart left to give you.
We're like a yo-yo, always returning to the source
Of the thing that catapults us into chaos in the first place.
Worse; we're those immortal jellyfish.
We don't live forever, we get too old to live anymore,
And we degrade into the beginning stages again,
Repeating the cycle while learning nothing.
When we're together, we are the universe,
The donut-shaped theory that forces us to go around and around,
And by now we're too disoriented by each other's touch
To know where the starting point is.
All of your ******* seem the same to me now,
And all your "I love you"s taste like stale water.
You're like a mirage, the shadow of a dream
Echoing what I really want but can't reach out for.
I'll have you know that you've ruined me,
Because I could have you all and still never be
Fulfilled, satiated, complete.
I know that's what I am to you too,
But I only know how I keep going back to the starting point.
Not sure about the poem, but let's be real, the title is awesome.
Corvus Apr 2017
Flowers on headstones.
Vivid colours amongst grey
To brighten the grief.
PS: The website seems slower today than it was yesterday. Please give it a dose of the hair of the hare.
Corvus May 2017
I'm the monster clawing at the walls.
You gave me the taste for your blood and then locked me in here.
Your scent stains every surface in the room;
Tantalising but with no flesh to sink my fangs into.
Rabid dog-type wildness becomes me,
Transforms me into a thing driven by madness and instinct.
You are the prey with footprints but no body.
I am the predator never knowing satiety.
Pacing replaces hunting, I'm starving,
And your constant, elusive presence has me frenzied.
Viscera begin to litter the room.
Yours or mine? I don't know. I'm starving.
Suffering from writer's block, so this is a repost.
Corvus Jul 2016
I'm the monster clawing at the walls.
You gave me the taste for your blood and then locked me in here.
Your scent stains every surface in the room;
Tantalising but with no flesh to sink my fangs into.
Rabid dog-type wildness becomes me,
Transforms me into a thing driven by madness and instinct.
You are the prey with footprints but no body.
I am the predator never knowing satiety.
Pacing replaces hunting, I'm starving,
And your constant, elusive presence has me frenzied.
Viscera begin to litter the room.
Yours or mine? I don't know. I'm starving.
Corvus Jul 2016
As a lifelong Atheist, I still like to ponder the issue:
What if I'm wrong and there's life after this?
Still, I think for all my transgressions,
I cannot possibly be deserving of the fiery depths.
Yet I know I shall never see Paradise,
Nor can I ever walk through those shining gates.
I reached out to them once, mere inches away from peace,
But I woke up and they vanished into a half-forgotten dream.
Because I swear I've seen an accomplice of God,
And she had the clearest windows I'd ever seen.
It was a wonder that she never wore her heart on her sleeve,
When her soul is always so easily-viewed.
Feeling at peace with your sins cancels them out,
So she must be the purest, most perfect soul there is.
She is no human, and she cannot be an angel
Because even Lucifer sinned from so high up that he fell.
Often, I think that I must be the devil
For dragging her down to this flawed place to be with me.
Wrapping her in my arms like they're serpents,
I fear they draw her into temptation without my permission.
With every breath she takes, I take a part of her heart.
I devour her innocence like I am Cronos.
But already there's shade cast upon her face,
And I know she will not remain pure for long.
Love says I should desire her happiness above all else,
So I am to let her go free, be without me.
And yet my serpent-arms do not relinquish their grip;
I think that they know she will not return to Eden.
Maybe she was never really from there,
Perhaps it was just how she perceives this world.
Surely, then, as we lie here in a tangle of limbs,
Ash must be raining down upon her beautiful scenery?
I wish I could take her eyes so that I could spare her the pain,
And so that I may have one last glance of beauty
Before all crumbles into decay and ruin
Like all things placed in front of Time must do.
Corvus Feb 2017
Sometimes (most of the time),
The title takes more effort than the poem.
If you're inspired, your pen moves your wrist
Faster, almost, than the brain can think of sentences.
And even when you're not inspired, when you've got writer's block,
You manage to think of a topic and away your talented self goes.
Then there's the title.
Do you want it to be simple or eye-catching
To the point of forcing people's eyes to read more?
Will you use a line from the poem,
Perhaps a word that sums up the general mood?
Or are you like me?
Do you want to think up a word combination
That probably doesn't exist anywhere except your poem?
Are you urging your brain like whipping an already-galloping horse
To think up a word far beyond your vocabulary skills?
I can write a poem in ten minutes,
And spend a week waiting for the perfect title.
Sometimes it never comes, but when it does,
I often love the titles more than its content.
Handy tip: If you're reading a poem I've written and the title is only one word, I probably hate it.
Corvus May 2016
Oh, now look at what you've done...
Left your conscience at the door, let the serpents climb the wall.
Do you think they see the heat, even though we never talk,
Never speak? Blaspheme my name, but how can I mind?
I let you turn the hourglass but the actions are still the same,
And the time passes quickly, but how are we to blame?
I'm carving litanies in flesh to recite only when alone,
But I don't think your soul approves of a heretic's attempt at faith
Even if it's my own take and it's for my own sake.
I would probably **** you to Hell if my unhappiness would break.
Here, hold my halo, I won't near it where I'll go.
It's nothing but a broken noose hovering just over me anyway.
A constant reminder that it's starting to fray,
And when it does come loose, that'll be the only time to pray.
Don't let the serpents reach our arms, don't let the serpents find our necks,
They are hanging from the ceiling and I think we might be next,
And I think that's for the best. That rosary was a lie, it was made of rope
Waiting for us to slightly die on one of those cope-less nights.
Do you think of how we met? Did you think of how we stepped
Into a world of guiltless dread or a room with no remorse?
Can death be the only way to punish such reckless sin?
These snakes won't let us give in, I think we're already gone.
Well, look at what you've done now...
Your conscience dead upon the floor and my blood over the wall.
Corvus Mar 2017
I love the idea of healing,
But I'm not just suffering from symptoms,
I am the sickness,
Punching myself black and blue,
Refusing to stop until I'm soaking red.
I'm better off suffering from the thing that kills me,
Than cutting away parts of me until useless fragments remain.
Like the captain that goes down with his ship,
I will never see salvation from this point onward.
This disease has seeped into my cells
And now I'm more sickness than human.
If I took away the biggest part of me,
What would I be left with, but emptiness?
Corvus Feb 2017
Perspiration coats skin
That stays invisible in the black of the night.
Rain hums an erratic but steady melody,
Leaving rhythm-keeping to the bodies;
Burnt with lust that consumed them
Quicker than rain can douse spirits,
Knowing they downed spirits in a whirl of confusion.
Throats burned, and tongues searched for answers
To questions she didn't recall asking.
Retracing memories' footsteps back...
Back to the bar where his charm set a flame that,
Ironically, made her wetter than the rain-soaked coat
That he took from her, whilst offering his own.
She remembers now.
Walking, talking, thinking away the rain,
Until his soft lips were upon hers and she resisted nothing.
Pushing, pulling, each other into a niche
That will hide their encounter from the wrong kinds of eyes.
A moment after the darkness swallows them whole
Does the predator devour its prey.
It is a prowler, always stalking the scent of pheromones,
Always leaving behind ruins.
Corvus Feb 2017
It's like having phantom limbs,
All protruding from random points on your body.
Sometimes it's like having limbs where there should be nothing,
And your brain is telling you that your hand must've taken a wrong turn.
I want to touch parts of me that don't exist
Outside of the empty vacuum of dreams.
I want to drag the scalpel across my own skin
And rip out the heavy weight of the tissue that drags me down.
Most of the time it's something I fixate on multiple times throughout the day.
Sometimes the worst-case scenario takes hold,
And on those days I've got a serrated knife in my hand,
I'm trying to find a reason to put it down.
I almost always put it down, if only out of vanity.
If only for the return of sanity.
So I breathe, I try to gain more air than is possible
Because the heaviest weight tends to be lying on my chest.
I breathe enough to return to passive fixation,
Where it's like an obsession and I'm stalking my own downfall.
I just want to touch the parts of me that don't exist.
I want to feel that they exist.
I need to know that I exist.
It's amazing how one of the most prevalent things in my life is also the most difficult to write about, but inspiration pops up now and again, so here we are.
Corvus Feb 2017
I don't look like me, I don't sound like me,
I don't feel like me.
Sometimes it feels not like I'm in the present,
But like I'm from the future sent back too far into the past,
And I'm impatiently waiting, playing catch up
Until my body grows into its brain.
Please, god, let me grow into myself.
My skin feels stretched too tightly over brittle bones,
And my muscles are so itchy,
I want to rip away my flesh just to reach inside.
My heart clamours incessantly, hurling itself at my rib cage
With such ferocity that my entire chest shakes with its beating.
Please, god, let something quieten it,
And if it can't appease it, please, god, let something silence it for good.
Corvus Jul 2016
'No' is a brave word.
Its success hinges on the respect its recipient attaches to it,
Which can range from immense to nonexistent.
The wisest will tell you to never be afraid of declining something,
Or refusing to do something you don't want to do,
But the truth is...
Saying 'no' can get you killed.
It can leave you bleeding from a dozen stab wounds
Because entitled people don't like hearing 'no' for the first time.
There are people who use the question as a formality,
Knowing even before the words leave their fabricated lips
That they have no intention of honouring your answer
Unless it's an identical match to their decision.
And those people will make it seem like your only options
Are confirmation or silence,
Whereby silence is taken as consent,
Because who's ever going to doubt that a phrase in Latin
Is anything but a sound logical argument?
It's the language used in the same **** courtroom
That requires proof that your 'no' was a valid one.
'Qui tacet consentire videtur' means 'He who is silent is taken to consent'.
Corvus Apr 2017
He watches; quiet, reflective.
No doubt he detected
The weight of my
Body-shaped shame.
My name similar to his,
Who now rots under sunlight,
Unabashed in his righteousness
To which I was blind.
I find myself here,
In a garden once perfect,
Now tainted with ******.
I heard the scratching,
Faint at first,
So I turned and saw him.
The raven watches;
Quiet, perceptive,
His gaze so effective.
His foot scratches the ground,
Making a sound that feels
Almost peaceful.
He unearths the freedom
That I need him to show me.
Just below me,
The earth is opening up.
I grab my brother's limp arm,
Drag him away
From the evidence of his harm.
Further away
From the judgment of God.
The raven approves;
He quietly nods.
Decided to take part in NaPoWriMo.
Corvus Apr 2017
Recipe for codependency.

- Cripplingly low self-esteem.
- A mind that over-analyses everything.
- Clinginess.
- Empty, hollow feelings in the chest.

Optional for decoration and added tastiness:
- Chronic illness.
- Love.

Take all ingredients and pour them into a bowl unceremoniously;
The more carelessly, the better the batter.
Measurements aren't required, feel free to experiment
And tweak the quantities to suit your own preferences.
Take your fists and punch down, hard, repeatedly,
Until the emptiness in the chest feels full.
If you have a bigger appetite,
You might prefer to throw in some more punches.
Stop when extensive bruising appears on the chest
And you feel an immense swelling in the heart area.
The throbbing feels like a heartbeat,
And that's when you know you're on the right track.
Bake in an oven fueled with the fiery arguments
Or the passionate distractions from reality; whichever is hottest.
Day two of NaPoWriMo, which is to write poem inspired by or in the form of a recipe.
Corvus May 2016
Your home has become a church built on ruins;
Unholy foundations made sacred again
When you taught me how to breath the meaning of 'Amen.'
There are stains on my heart from all the poison I ingested,
Only you told me it was holy water at the time, and I believed.
I relented when you said I wasn't the devil on your shoulder
Dragging you away from Heaven to be the angel I sorely need.
Eventually I felt the burning heat radiating from your skin,
And I knew you were joining me, the fallen angel of an era,
You were the epitome of sin, and I bit readily into you,
And I continued to do so until I became starved and more starved.
Now the wells have run dry, I rely on your body, your blood,
The transubstantiation by which our codependency thrives on.
You tell me the key to salvation resides in repetition,
So I return to the same church and recite the same prayers
That are written on your skin, that I study until my eyes burn
When the sun glares through the steam-coloured stained glass window.
My friends denounce you as a devil, a false prophet,
They say you're no good for me, you're leading me to Hell,
But they just want to nail you to a cross,
And if they do, I'll be on the cross to your left.
I'll love you even when your touch starts burning me.
I'll love you when the scars on my palms reopen and bleed.
When the holy water starts rotting my throat from the inside,
I'll make sure to choke out your name,
Last words of a martyr dying for his cause.
Even when your horns start to show,
I'll burn myself to keep you warm enough that you can resurrect
On the third day.
Corvus Oct 2016
Being the black sheep of the family
Is all well and good until winter comes.
The grass is frozen, food is scarce
And those stomachs don't stop rumbling,
Ever wailing to be appeased,
Unaware and uncaring to the icy conditions.
They're not monsters, no.
They huddle together for warmth;
Snow dusting their coarse wool
As they stand, determined to make it through the cold.
But their stomachs scream like dying beasts,
And the ache is so prevalent in their empty bellies.
No fat to chew on, time passes by so slowly,
And that black sheep is starting to look like the odd one out.
It doesn't look like food,
But it does seem just enough like an other
To smother any guilt that may linger
At the bottom of a recently-assuaged hunger.
They're not monsters, no,
Because the black sheep was never one of them.
Families stick together, folks.
Corvus Sep 2016
She doesn't have to be your mother
For you to not call her a ***** for not doing what you want.
She doesn't have to be your sister
For you to not call her a ***** for having *** even once.
She doesn't have to be your daughter
For you to expect boys to respect her as a person.
"What if she was your mother/daughter/sister?"
Shouldn't be a valid question.
It shouldn't be a question that makes you stop and think,
"That's true, I need to treat women like I'd treat my female family members."
As though it's given you the epiphany
That even women you don't know are entitled to decency.
And if that question is what made you change your ways,
Get rid of the notion that women can only be treated to
The same amount of basic respect as men
If you can imagine your mother's/sister's/daughter's face staring back.
Corvus Jun 2017
The old man's teeth was stained with
Whiskey that had saturated his raspy breath.
Sunlight rested on the wisps of his hair,
Showing me an abundance of silver wealth.
In his company, I gave into morbid curiosity,
Listening to him slur hi(s)-stories to me.
He was hard to understand,
But his words left me in a trance;
So numb that all else faded to black,
As his words painted glorious pictures of red to me.
Death, destruction, war, chaos.
Bloodshed to the highest degree.
The kind of violence you only see in war, real war.
The kind of violence that no mere movie can depict,
Because it lacks the foul stench of authenticity.
He told me his breath stays tainted,
Painted with memories so horrific that demons of PTSD ran from them.
He mentioned that we're all at war with ourselves,
And the demons can be found lurking at the bottom of the glass.
With that caveat, he drained his drink,
Patted me on the shoulder,
And left me like a soldier in the battlefield of life,
With no weapons nor protection,
Just a lesson to save yourself from the inevitable.
Corvus Oct 2016
Please don't touch me, I have memory foam skin,
And I can't withstand your fingerprints resting on top of theirs.
I'll crumble under the weight,
No matter how much softer your touches are.
Don't touch me, because like second-hand smoke dusting the bottom of lungs,
My contaminants will turn your flesh to no more than dirt.
I can't shake the feeling that all my appendages are swords waiting to hurt you,
Because nothing good can grow inside the corpse they made of me.
I can't let you touch me, because I am the glass,
Passed around to everyone at a party,
Marked in my entirety,
And you are like gold, gleaming and newly polished.
Don't touch me, you deserve a better lover than a sodomite,
And if that's all I am then that would make you Gomorrah,
And I don't want to be the thing that causes you to burn
In retribution for my...
Corvus Jan 2017
I label you a demon far too often,
I write about you like you're a succubus
Or some sort of sexually-manipulative, destructive force
Desperate to destroy my happiness or sanity.
And I'm sorry for making it seem that way,
When the truth is I'm equally to blame.
Magnets are drawn to each other equally,
And for as much as you pull me, I pull back just as much.
But sometimes it feels like you have an upper hand,
Some sort of winning deck that I can't see,
And you watch me like you know it,
You play with the nervousness like it's a game.
It gives off the illusion that it's one-sided,
And sometimes illusions become truths in our mind.
I resent you for it.
Truthfully, I resent you for a lot of things.
How easily you make desire your element;
The way you take an uncontrollable flame and tame it to your will,
Let it do your bidding like a puppet does for its master.
How hard it is for me to even look at the flame that you wield.
Corvus May 2016
Beautiful and radiating warmth, you are the Sun.
Whether my love for you is quiet and hidden away,
Or glistening, basking in your glow,
It cannot survive without what you bring to it.

You are the Sun, beautiful yet distant,
Even though the heat always pierces through the atmosphere,
And uncomfortably warms up my love for you
Far past its limits.

You are the Sun,
Because I can only happily survive
If you're 93 million miles away.
And even that feels too close.
Corvus Apr 2016
Depression isn't a black cloud.
That cliche implies that eventually there'll be a torrential downpour,
And then the cloud will fade away and allow
The sun to shine through, ending that terrible storm.
Depression is a starless night.
An expanse of black where even the stars have abandoned you,
Long since dead, and you try to make sense of the loneliness
In a world where people have turned into zombies.
Thoughtless, repetitive phrases become their instincts.
"Think positively," is the mantra of the dead to the dying.
As though statements turn into directions when the sun goes down,
Like signposts leading us to a brightly-lit land.
But the sky doesn't respond to artificial lights,
And nothing but time can force the sun to return.
Their second statement, under the facade of help,
Is to remind us that day will always follow night,
And no matter how starless and eternal the darkness feels,
The sun will eventually break through the horizon, waving pinks and oranges.
Sadly, not all lifespans are created equal,
And for the many colourful transitions people have seen in the sky,
There are plenty who never see more than black.
Some souls are born at dusk and are dead by pre-dawn,
Never having lived through anything but darkness.
And to the zombies, accepting that fact is the hardest.
I'm not a fan of 'think positively' statements pretending to be advice.
Corvus Jun 2017
It was hard to not be a solipsist before I met you;
Every scar on my body self-inflicted and disease-made,
With a mind just as self-sabotaging and damaged.
Now I don't care if even I don't exist,
If you're the simulation-brain and I'm along for the ride.
Take me to oblivion, and as long as you're right next to me,
I'll pay the fare for this fantasy taxi.
There's no sense in this journey and the roads are all lost.
I don't know how it fits, but I hear they call it love.
And behind this mess of bone, blood and tissue,
I've always been a slave to the cruelest,
That most human of traditions.
Corvus Apr 2016
My friend killed himself a few hours ago.
There's no hole in my chest in the shape of him,
Just an aching that spreads from heart to fingertips
In pulsating waves of sorrow.
It's the aftershock, it feels confused.
One minute there are tears that stain the fabric of a friendship
That used to be clean and fresh, now frayed and *****.
Next minute I'm trapped staring at the page without seeing the words,
Body thumping in rhythm with the quickened pace of my heartbeat.
I think of him and there's ***** threatening to escape me.
I think of him and I feel like the waves will overcome me.
Despite the loss, I'm glad he's finally found peace,
Even though suffering doesn't end with your death, it's just transferred
To those who loved you the most fiercely.

I'm glad your last moments were peaceful for you,
No coldness and dark, no clawing to life, seconds too late to change your fate.
I know you went outside and sat in your garden, basking in the sun,
And then you drifted off to sleep.
I wish I felt that same kind of comforting warmth as you,
But the heat for me is more of a scorching blaze.
It courses throughout my body, a fire burning me within,
Leaving me weak and filled with unopened wounds of unanswered questions.
But it's OK, because love is bearing the pain of your loved ones
So that you can ease the heavy weight that burdens them.
And I love you, so that's what I'll do.
Sometimes writing is all you can do.
Corvus Dec 2016
You've got the biggest smile on your face but no light in your eyes.
Your ******* are over-exposed, and you're slightly less than flesh but much more than bone.
Nobody remembers you now except in black and white,
In headlines and articles; your existence summed up in a single sobriquet.
You're the Mona Lisa of tragedy, a painting created with camera flashes,
And your nakedness is clothed in speculation and mystery.
The scandal of an era; defamation and declarations of promiscuity,
Ripping away your personality, tearing off your integrity.
Left even less than the mess your artist carved you into
After the insatiable appetites of the vultures picked your image dry.
A mere carcass where once there was a body of hopes and dreams,
Posed to perfection; you're the model everyone imagines you to be.
Beauty personified, everyone is an admirer,
Everyone wants to take credit for creating a masterpiece,
Yet there is only one person that can take credit.
Only one person responsible for transforming you
From the ordinary beauty to the extraordinary artwork.
You were transcended into eternity.
Only your artist and his methods remain secret;
A sculptor, a painter with an eye for an eye-catcher.
You're the flower that was destined for fame,
Even if your petals had to be cut up first.
Black Dahlia. Old poem, but one of the very few poems that isn't about me, therefore I'm quite happy with it.
Corvus Oct 2016
I'm not sure when I fell in love with you,
When I let my foot hover over a cliff and then put my weight on it.
I just know that the first time I heard you speak
Was when I realised I'd never heard anything so beautiful.
The way your Spanish did the tango with your accent
And enchanted my ears to follow every word, mesmerised.
I never expected you to look at me the way you did,
And I don't think I've ever looked at eyes as closely as I have yours.
And I never wanted to let go of you,
Even when I started getting too sick to feel.
Maybe I'm too scarred for the nerves to fully heal now,
Or maybe they're too sensitive to pain for me to ever touch you again.
And maybe my heart is the same, it's too sensitive to love you again,
But it's doing it anyway, and it doesn't hurt so much
When I'm lying next to you.
That's when time stops, and pain can't exist in a timeless vacuum.
All I know is that it's complicated,
That we're angels casting monsters for shadows.
Simplicity isn't our best quality, but I wouldn't accept it anyway;
I don't want to experience loving you only as fairy-tale fragments.
If there's a love that is as wholesome as it is hedonistic,
As purifying as it is corruptive,
Then I know it's where we exist.
Corvus Nov 2016
Rainbow-tinted vision, stained glass syringes,
Euphoria in a bottle, floating on the sea.
Making love to happiness and warmth, simultaneously,
Getting consistently and roughly violated
With the reality of sharp needles, ******* drug (ab)use.
Looking for a vein; any takers, any takers?
Take it anyway, I've no time for pleasantries,
Just let me stick the **** thing inside you.
That bliss back again, shout, "Honey, I'm home,"
And never think about returning to the land of the moving.
Nod my way through conversations of sleep-deprivation,
Sliding down an abyss and I've never felt so good.
Flash a smile to the darkness for shooting my rainbows
Into the stars that are burning out in my hands.
Advice falling on half-deaf ears because, let's face it,
I just want to get high.
Inspired by a few family members, I guess.
Corvus Feb 2017
I'm scared of letting myself love you,
Even though we both know I already do.
I'm so afraid that my arms are knives
Ready to cut you into slices of meat,
Willing and eager to devour you
Like you are nothing but my latest prey.
At the same time, I'm afraid that my body is an old book,
So ripped and used, so damaged by fingertip oils,
That my entire being will crumble into dust
Under the weight of your embrace.
Your love is so beautifully heavy,
Clumsy in its eagerness to express itself.
Whereas mine is so half-eaten that it trembles,
Cowers in the corner fearfully awaiting your advance.
I don't want to be this afraid of vulnerability,
But every step in the right direction
Is a step out of my fortress and into the night
Where bad things have followed me.
And I'm scared that instead of hurting me again,
They'll possess me and make me become them.

And then you would become me.
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