Allow me to be found
Between book ends and whiskey bottles
Creating mishaps between the both of us
Dreaming of a chance away from here
Echo the hallow chamber of our bedroom
Finding every lost chance we had at communicating
Ghosts
Hoping someone will take notice
I am here
Just a passing ship in the night

I have a little pocket, deep inside my mind
Where I throw out all my secrets, I want to leave behind
It can be good to remember but sometimes better to forget
Certain things and places, or even people that I've met
I keep my darkest moments,  buried in this hole
Because everybody's got a secret, they'll never tell a soul

He wore nothing other than black even in the summer, his crystal blue eyes reflected ocean-hues and had jet black ink that could slightly be seen under the sleeve of his tattered and torn Rolling Stones tee. That boy, he was quite a mystery, had the body language of a jigsaw puzzle not wanting to be mended, although it was all opaque to me, others saw him impenetrable, however, I read him like my favorite book. This boy is exactly like me intelligent yet covert, impassive and esoteric yet a universe full of secrets and unspoken thoughts. It seemed as if his soul was somber and consumed nothing but vacuity. But I saw a masterpiece, a messily painted work of art, and that was the beauty of it. Others saw chaos on a canvas while I saw every watercolored hue that completed the exotic illustration that was, Luke.

''You can still look **** without potraying *** in pictures''

I'm locked
Surround by chains
that lock me down,
Surround by pain
that destroys my name

I'm locked
No woman nor man
could ever wish for this
I'm drowning in hopelessness
If there was a way
to release this curse
I wouldn't have to suffer by
going through the worst
I wouldn't shred a single tear,
My body wouldn't ake
And I wouldn't be taken back
by my mistakes

Im locked
Destroyed by the life that is my own,
To the devil it feels as if I'm sold,
Every day gets dimmer
my life gets darker,
To God I am just his stocker

I'm locked
If I were to be given a second chance,
only then would my vocabulary
not be filled with I can't
Only then would I not count the minutes
Or count everyday life
as the witching hour
I wouldn't cower in the corner
Or write down death dates in my calendar
Like I used too

No
I would get a new chance at life
I wouldn't die by my own hand
And wouldn't say it was just a knife

she is an asylum,
her walls drip blackness
writing every word
that neglected
to slip past her
teeth,
she sleeps on
****-stained spring
mattresses as the
clod tiles bite
at her heels,
hair and skin hide
beneath her fingernails
as palms are twinged,
the padded walls
whisper screams
of coercion; wrists
bound by silence and
tightened by insanity.
to bedposts
rusted,
her hands retired on
ridged thighs
hugging her
goosebumps with
convulsions of agitation.
her mind
scratches melodies of an
insomniac,
the flickering lights choke
her vision and blind her speech.
a room of contradictions
irregulating regularities
intoxicating sobriety
hallucinating reality,
the muffled screams
that weave through
the fibres of the
pillow clinched tightly
in her lap harmonize
algorithms that pull
each padded wall
towards her howling
being — centrefold the room,
as the walls hug her body
she awakes and paints
antonyms to
perpetual despondency