I smile in the face of madness,
Just to encourage the sadness.
Dancing on a cliff edge,
Where it drops into darkness.
And I hide behind my sleeves,
So that intrusive eyes leave.
Everyone has their sin,
It's just that mine's achieved.
Yet I punch a wall inside my head,
To watch the knuckles bleeding red.
There's in my mind, and what's outside.
So I sit quietly instead,
And spectate the defectives,
Third person perspective.
I see a TV screen with 3D glasses,
Mirrored and deflective.
I try to be witty,
Instead I'm viewed with pity.
It's a look I thought I'd hate,
But instead it's rather pretty,
At least on your face.
With permanent disgrace.
You tried to lend a hand,
But your care was misplaced.
So I dance on alone,
It's the only thing I've known.
And sit upon my throne,
Made of heartache and her gravestone,
And built by late night, missed calls on the phone.

She left so abruptly and quickly that
She ripped off a piece of me.
She fashioned it into a Voodoo doll,
She did it unintentionally.

I listened to that band you told me about,
When we used to be together.
And they are better than I had ever imagined.
They could've become the tether

That held us close.
But of course I had to ignore you,
And focus on myself.
Because I had too

Many flaws.
But the songs are flawless.
And original.
And I have played them countless

Times through my ears.
In the car.
On a train, on a bus, in my room,
Travelling far

And wide on the
Wave-like impetus.
Creating and serving as a
Melancholic stimulus.

And it fills my mind with
Vivid memories of things that
Never happened;

Us throwing ourselves around
The danceroom floor
To the jagged riffs,
Spaceward-bound.

Or us lying in bed,
Under the blankets
And the sheets,
No tears being shed.

Or us in our special place.
The one that no one knows of.
Where you always catch me
Staring at your face.

And I remind myself,
That these don't exist.
And I start to lose sight.
That feeling persists

Of a hopeless hopelessness.
Replaced by desolate euphorics.
Because the songs that you liked
Are a bittersweet tonic

Of what I have lost.
But what another will gain.
Because a lucky man will come along.
He'll remove the strain

Of what I left behind.
But it's enough to know
That we both like this now.
Recommended eras ago

To me.
From you.
With care.

The scars on your arms
Form the box of my jail cell.
I'm serving a pseudo-voluntary,
Compulsory sentence for someone
Else's hell.

I guess I chose this fate
Despite it being ****** in front of me.
But the illusion of free will
Is a broken façade of
Immaturity.

I suppose I do like you,
But be with you? I don't know.
Your unblamable desire for
Love and affection is something
I can't show.

Because while your world may be Torture, mine isn't heaven either.
With heart flutters,
Stomach aches,
And leaving class for breathers.

The help that I can give,
Is reaching its end.
And whisperings
Tell me to leave,
From nefarious, bitter friends.

Yet when I entertain departure,
The only things that I'm left with are

My thoughts in the shower,
My tears joining the water,
And I remember looking in the mirror
Trying to figure out where I am.

There is a table between us.
An arm’s-length between us.
An inch-width of wood between us.

There used to be a lifetime between us;
We traversed and scrambled across the
Rugged terrain of life.
And we enjoyed the views and the
Panoramic scenery, ignorant of strife.
And I’d have thought that perhaps, one day,
You’d be my wife.

But that lifetime’s a dream for us;
We moved apart,
Got new friends.
Company lost,
No more messages for us to send.
And we gradually, unsuspectingly
Approached the end.

Now there isn’t much between us;
Bar some remnants,
Faded memories,
And an inch-width, arm’s-length piece of wood between us.

Back and forth.
Up and down.
Here and there.
But actually nowhere.
Apart from up here.
In my brain.
That’s where the movement is.

It’s a tightrope balancing act,
Every second,
Another step.
I am going to have to embrace the fact

That this is my new reality.
An intangible,
Hazy truth.
Half spontaneity

And the other half numbness.
A seesaw,
A jigsaw.
But with an endless

Aim of just one more yard.
Keep up,
Don’t slow.
But I feel tired

And I want it to stop.
But there’s one more season,
One more tide.
I wonder if I could chop

All the bad parts out.
No more old starts.
No more sore hearts.
Then I could shout

It away.
And fulfil my
Wish.
Of not wanting it to stay.

I had not thought it would be this way.