Sinking smiles and golden brown spots
Silver lining on every edge, drifting deeper into the horizon.
Blue drops fall silently down,
Sinking into the light brown surface.
Evaporating.
Evaporating back into the black empty holes.

Up from a disintegration, its meaning less to go back.
To hard to start over.
Sorrows show flashes spread across darkness.

A small opening.
Just enough.
Closing up.
Black inside and out.
Pitch black.

Breaking into song until its too loud.
quicker, quicker.
Wishing it would stop.
Noises stop for just a moment.

Silence.
Waiting for it break.
Peacefulness gets swallowed.
Resting in sobs of tranquility.

Oh blasphemous beauty, how you cloud my judgement.
Your torturous soul engulfs me with
wisdom way to young and old,
for my tender age.

Your speculated claws drive me further and further,
away into the shallow pits of destiny and fate facing face.

Oh blasphemous beauty why do you torture me with,
your tender words and pitiful looks.
Your sorrowful glances are a pitchfork of loveliness.

Your bottled ego makes my rage as empty as
the shallow grave.
Oh Blasphemous beauty you are a woman
of magnificent void.

Tremors of doubt fill an uneasy mind.
Tormenting shadows pick at the
Vulnerable state of petty existence.

Transformed into a bucket of
Mind numbing theories and disasters.

So beautifully imprinted.
Reflecting the absence of
Justified hope.

Cascading symbols and
Bitter awakenings only drive the
Envious nature of imperfect solutions.

Canvas expressions are touched by
Sympathies of a wounded landscape,
Carrying a judgemental load of nothing.

Nothing is all it has.

A frameless door.
Staggering in its height.
Shallow in its dull colourful haze.

A bottle of emptiness.
Hiding behind its shattered glass.
Speaking in voices only the unfamiliar can understand.

A lid closing all lightness.
Foreseeing only the darkness.
Staring eyes. Staring out of a windowless window.

Picking green from ripened soil.
Avoiding contact.
Leaving all the importance.

Speaking in whispers.
Closing the empty barrel.

I remember the day you asked if we had always been this way.
If the love, or at least what we thought love to be, has ever been.

I looked into your eyes and I really considered telling you the truth.
Wouldn't that be a first?
I looked into wanting eyes and I could feel your skin trembling.

I told you that we had always tried to make each other feel numb, a little bit dead inside, just enough to keep us going.

I told you we were both so terrified of feeling more, that we are still so desperate for touch, that we never would have been able to touch each other properly.

I told you that a part of me abhorred you and that a part of you had always felt the same for me.

But the truth is my sweet, I love you in every version of you and me. In every way we thought and still think love to be.

Translucent shadows
yelling with a whispering glare.

Static emotions conspire,
against voices of failures and
drowning successes.

The full void sinking.
Sinking in desperation.
Seeking, knowing, screaming
with harmless nameless joy.

Glazed smiles transform
betrayed silence into a masquerade of
endless thoughts and memories.

Change withering with a vacant stare.
Ready.

Pretenses fade slowly.

Its done.

Under the dead leaves they lie.
Measuring the sights of the land.
Sitting, waiting and welting.
Constantly drumming their shaking hands.

Under the dead leaves they lie.
Grabbing sticks and melting tragedies by drowning down.
We wonder, we wait, we sigh.
Looking for a reason to move.

Under the dead leaves they lie.
Pressing up thoughts of the grey chain.
Mimicking the great sorrow.
Embracing a new companion in vein.

Under the dead leaves they lie.
They lie and lie and lie.

You say you love poetry.
You say you love to write it.
You say you love how the ink drips from your pen.

You say you love how it caresses your paper.
You say you love the the way it falls off
your tongue and onto your lips.
You say you love how you read it,
enunciate
it like it's the essence of your soul.

But the truth is like poetry.
And most people hate poetry as much as you hate the truth.

You are going around in circles again.
Falling into memories which look like spheres
and I am drowning in pink cheeks.

I am sorry for all the pain I have caused you
over the years.
And I wish I could accept your
apology.

You are an empty vessel not wanting
to be filled
with eyes so widely brimmed.

When you are alone,
you are wholeheartedly alone.
When your demons attack they
rip up
the ground and
tear open
the sky.

I can't save you anymore
I can't let go.

I am sorry for not loving you
the way we promised,
for neglecting your self worth.
For laughing off your
insecurities,
like they were a summer play
in June.

You are everything to me.
Everything I need to carry on.

I am watching the last tear
drip
from your pink cheek and
I would give anything to see
a rivers worth more.

I can see the last twinkle
in your eye.
I wish I could dream up
galaxies to make it stay
forever.

I can sense your last mumble.
I can feel you on me, in me.
I am on my knees
begging you to say more,
or less
but nothing remotely close
to this.

I want so badly to eat you whole,
to give you the
second
fourth
hundredth chance you need.

I wish I could spill liters
more of black coffee.
Break a thousand more plates
just to hear you scream.

I am so sorry and I love you.
I will always love you.
You are so beautiful.
and I know it is a cliche
but please,
please, let me take you home now?

We can be safe.
I can be you
and,
you can be me.