Everything is flat,
Yet my heart insists to beat.
I tried to speak again today,
So my mind stopped me.
I set out to be seen again,
and found no one looking.
I write words of no meaning,
to describe what’s in my head.
Broken mirrors all around me,
Reflecting all I feel.
I tried to find myself today,
To only find I’m dead.

Awoke to find I’m too much today.
My sides too soft
My steps too loud.
Less space around, too much within
Voices thought dead resurrected today,
Voices thought gone come back to speak
To remind me that I am too much again.

I could hear it tapping at my door.
I knew why it came here,
I knew who it was looking for.

Its presence was heavy,
My memories devoured me,
I saw the one who tapped at my door.
wanting what it took,
now looking for more,
I was the one it came here for.

Darkness returned me
It found what it came for
Then it left, shutting my door.

My head felt heavy
My darkness got loud.
I felt so alone.
I felt all I’m not right now.

I could leave through that door
To a world of no more
thoughts became darker
How long have I been staring at this door?

I feel it lurking at my door.
I hear it tapping.
Tap
Tap
Tapping on my ******* door.

Creeeeeaaaakk..

I always hated the sound that door made.
Whether you closed it fast or slow, the sound of the creak was always the same.
A signal, warning you not to proceed.

But you weren’t scared, you’ve done this many times before, to where you can’t remember,
and the hand holding yours, is a hand you’ve held before.

And the cement steps that led to the darkness,
felt warm and so welcoming.
It felt a little bit like coming home.
That’s all I remember.

It is here I woke up
The silence awoke me,
My feet were wet and cold,
my hand no longer recognized the hand that I hold.
As if it felt that moment I realized I’m in danger,
The hand would disappear, and I was left alone.

I was frozen.
I started to scream but nothing came out.
I shook from my fear and dashed towards the stairs, as if in danger.
I always expected something to pull me back.
The door felt so far.

The Witch of Estelle
Found her her vision.
for the Witch of Estelle found her His vision.
His vision of found
In this world for His sound.
For the Witch of Estelle, found her His Vision.

On 13th September
A fires quaint ember
Spoke what’s not spoken,
yet membered.
A mind for He sought,
with furnace for thought,
wisdom and secrets,
crafts and of demons.
All left unspoken,
yet remembered.

I find it hard to look upon the face of my sleeping child.
All I see are all the ways I wasn’t what she needed today.
Even now, with a sleeping face,
I see peace, her innocence.
As though not wandering in a world
where not even I can protect her.
What hell, for the Mother too afraid
to look upon the face of her sleeping babe.

They say it’s a curse, disguised as a gift.

An agreement She made with the Devil.
She danced with His darkness, and prayed for departure.
So feet, He had brought,
A treat, so She thought,
She was ready,
no surrender.

A gift’s what He gave Her,
A gift, not an offer.
For this gift bore
“conditions”.

She must suffer all thoughts,
His prisoner of dark,
Given words She must remember!
So He gave Her his pen.
Darkness, returned Her.
With a gift She could bleed,
no surrender.

Yet as He returned Her,
His ‘Secrets’, He gave Her.
The warmth of His breath
still lingers...

She summons His Darkness,
She plays with The Highest.
When Dark is too Dark
She surrenders.

For that’s how She became,
such beauty, yet ugly,
That’s how He bestowed Her-
“Royal Poetess”

What is it?

Comfort from stories you sought comfort before?
Eyes untouched by your demons?
Visions of becoming the best version of yourself?
Hungry ears devouring your stories?

Confusing calm for plain and boring.
Seeking dysfunction.
Problems created existing outside you,
hoping it gets loud enough.
Drowning out what’s within you.
Your soul doesn’t knock anymore?

This void that fed something
Replaced by hunger.
I’m homesick..
I miss you.

Willing misinterpretation of disappointment. Crafted intentions of abandonment.
Disguising what’s yours to retain integrity. You’ve always had your way out plotted. Hiding from the one you showed your duality,

I’ve always known you.
And this is just something you do repeatedly.

Give me your vision
I crafted within you.
I’ll pick up my pen
Your dreams I’ll pursue.

If bloods what you seek
I’ll open my arms.
Is flesh what you want?
**** it, do harm.

**** me Crowley.
Make me moan.
For you see, I worship thee.
Burn me Crowley.
Burn me.

Give me my vision,
You crafted within me.
Deliver me Crowley
I’ll make it my mission.

It sneaks up on you when you least expect it.
You start shivering from within.
You forget,
it’s too overwhelming.

You took a wrong turn,
now your lost.
Can’t say they didn’t warn you.  

The fear is consuming,
as you become still.
For stillness is required to allow you to see.
To see the edge of eternity.

You creep to the edge,
each time a bit closer,
and you shake with that fear,
as you’re ravished with terror.
Stay calm and remember,
for the hole has no memories
of times you felt better.

The hole is a savior from painful nostalgia,
pulling you closer.
A reminder that your only getting further.

The hole contains silence,
that which can’t be broken.
The hole contains nothing,
nothing at all.
The hole does not hurt,
the hole does not care.

The hole grows wider every time you peek,
each time more seducing.
Because the day’s become harder,
and the nights just feel longer,
and the hole offers solace
for the tired and the weak.

The hole leaves impressions
It takes some of you.
For no one can peek into eternity,
for the hole takes your piece
and only grows larger

So here we are.
I’m almost gone.
The hole is now whispering
for me to come home

As it consumes
my body starts shaking.
And with my last breath
I whisper
“Nevermore, my sweet Lanore.
Nevermore.”

Terror feeds my panic.
I’ve never been here before.
These people are unknown to me,
for what this feels is foreign to me.
But I know if I just lay here,
it will be the end for me.

Sometimes I hate you
I hate you so ******* much.
I crave for you the blood dripping from my wrists
I want to cover you in it.
******* death
I know you’re hungry for it

My mind won’t stop
I’m so tired
Yet it still knocks
Beauty
I want nothing of it
Yet it still knocks
I’m so tired
Mind, please stop
Yet it still knocks

At least when I’m awake at night and everything is quiet, there’s a reason for my loneliness.

Everyones sleeping,
that’s why I’m lonely.

It’s when the light presents and the darkness disappears, people are awake and going about their days.
The excuse for why I’m lonely is gone, my shield, protecting me from what’s hidden at night.
I’m lonely because....
well I don’t know,
but everyone else sure seems to understand why.

A gifted mask disguising the curse
Each time tricking me.
It feels so good
It feels too much
Then it quickly abandons me.

Manic leftovers now surround me
What’s so good now rotten and stale
Go back to bed,
reminders
I’ll never truly know me

I get nervous when I feel happy.
Like I’m walking across a roof made of cracked glass.
I see what’s below me through the mildew stains and it seems safer than this.
Every step I take I hold my breath,
waiting for the sound of cracking glass, disappointed it’s still bearing my weight.
I’m so focused on listening, holding my breath,
I forget I’m no longer there.

But even if I am here,
I’m always there.
Whether I’m in it or above it,
I’m either there, or looking upon it.
The anticipation of falling is worse than the fall itself.

Cold sandpaper hands that shook with fright.
There was never anything inviting about your touch.
Harsh breath that moistened my skin as you lay on top of me;
I sometimes prayed it would drown me.

Before October I don’t remember.
Your few moments of satisfaction split me into two, now I’m lost-
desperately searching for the me that was before you.
I’m now starting to grasp the concept that I am forever left with the me that happened after.

Do you ever think of me?
I don’t know why the answer to that question is so important, But it is.
So answer me.
Do you ever think of me?

Do you ever think of my body squirming in the dark only to find itself succumbing to your demands?
Do you ever think of how far I came in those years?
I went from squirming to grinding because I learned how to survive someone like you.

It is what is is,
but don’t ever confuse “it” with love, passion, or lust.
“It” made me feel *****.
“It” made me feel wrong.

“It” is a dark, damp house on the coldest day of winter, and all I want to do is leave
but my body is stuck,
my body is paralyzed.
My body has forgotten how much it loves the warmth of the sun and taste of fresh air.

Instead I watch my breath as I breathe in what you breathed out-
my tears forgetting to fall,
as I no longer feel you.

They say getting the wind knocked out of you reminds our lungs how much they love the air.
But what if the air you are breathing is the same air you lost when you were kicked in the stomach?

“It” is the outline of a small hand in the dead of night, and no matter how much I stretch my small fingers my hand will never be wide enough to catch all the pain.

“It” can never be cleaned;
“It” is a stain on my mind; and no matter how much I scrub-it is still there.
I can cover “it” up; but I still know it’s there.
I still see you.

Have you ever felt so hollow you could hear the echoes of your soul crying every time you knocked?
My soul still cries to make you stop; please stop.

I can still taste the salt on your hands as you covered my mouth, I would sometimes wonder if I was tasting your sadness.
It’s the same thing I taste when I’m crying alone in the dark and I lick my lips.
I do that a lot you know.
Do you?

I don’t know if you ever think of me.
But I think of you.
You will always have a dark, cold home in my mind.

I hope you’re still cold.
I hope You’re still damp.
I hope you never find the light that will lead you back to your before.

I hope you forever wander in the dark,
forever seeing the outline of her small hand, and every time you reach to grab it you are always met with your own fist.

I hope you slowly die as your own breath fills your home in my mind; until you are left with nothing to breath but your own breath.
I hope you see the poetry in a death like that.

Everyday feels like the day before
From the moment I wake up, the countdown to the next begins.
Everyday feels like the day before
and although it keeps happening
I couldn’t tell you when it began.
Tomorrow will be what happened today.
Today’s what happened yesterday.
Everyday feels like the day before
When does this countdown end?