She hung strands of
Sunshine from her neck
And painted her eyes with
The froth of the ocean
In hopes to bring the moon
To envy.

Sh, my Darling,
Slip on your mask,
Protect yourself from the poisons
Of the world,
The world we,
The creators,
Builders,
Constructors of such a thing
Have reduced to rubble
Just the same,
And Darling,
If you find your eyelids
Feel heavy and your
Breathing slowed,
Drift away from this
Wasteland in the
Comfort of my arms,
And find a better tomorrow.

The sky is gray, dead,
Dying, like my thoughts,
It's warm passion far from bloom,
Shriveled in the chill of the dim.

The vast entirety of nothing
Fills the spaces in between,
And little flakes of Heaven
Shimmer to their collective

Pools of concentrated inspiration,
A burden once enjoyed,
No longer found,
Trapped in childhood wishes.

We are all just broken messes, aren't we?

Just weird abstractions of people,
Clinging to the material and unnatural
Thrills and chills of being,
In some odd hope that we will wake up
Rejuvenated and refreshed
And with a mind so clean
And pure
And sure of ourselves,
But we are really just lost
In our own self-constructed mazes of
Complications and complexity.

It wasn't so much
The fibers of her being
That made the sun get
Out of bed each morning,

But rather the image of
Her existence that coaxed
The Universe to spin steadily
On the axis of eternity.

Your lungs strain, old,
Torn, a rush of air
Pushing from your chest,
And all you remember is

A troubled flow of blood to
Your head and a quavering breath,
Shaken and hollow and your
Eyelids weigh with all the

Gravity of the world,
Pulling you closer to her,
Bright light,
A lingering touch of her fingers

Against yours, the brush of
Her hair that reeks of decay,
But smells so nostalgically satisfying
In itself.

For love, don't ever leave me alone
In this world unlit by a moon,
I'll follow you close behind.

Is it wrong
That I glance up at the clouds,
Feeling the wind through my hair,
And dream of a mystifying land
Where one can be accepted no matter what?

Is it wrong
That I choose to wear jeans down past my heels,
Baggy and ripped at the knees,
Unlike all the other boys that wear athletic
Shorts, so unscathed and clean?

Is it wrong
That I ask people about their troubles,
Sometimes doing all in my mortal power
To help them surpass the simple,
Even ones I have not defeated myself?

Is it wrong
That while the few friends I have
Dance around giddily and go to
The most extreme only to impress,
But I only hang back in silent content?

Is it wrong
That I do not laugh when others are hurt,
On their knees in blood stained mud,
And I am there with hand outstretched,
Seeming to always be there in time of need?

Is it wrong
That I do not clap, nor do I support
Ones I do not find worthy of it,
Ones who I find in my perspective to be
Quite cruel and bitterly heartless?

Is it wrong
That I choose to sit in the back,
Observe and question from a far,
And wonder why when I do speak up,
It is only taken as a leaf crying softly in the wind?

Is it wrong
That I choose to be one of a kind,
Not part of the crowd, not swimming along
In the universal current of life,
Being my own group, my own person?

They tell me that you cannot win life
Without backstabbing and betrayal along the way,
No matter who you are inside or how honest you are.

But I believe this can only be this:
**The world can only be changed if someone is willing to take the steps to change it.