Oh my lover,
I’m sorry—
I know you
mean so well,
yet I’m not
a vessel to
your empty
self—

Even when
I still loved you
like poison
from a bottle—
We fall apart
like glass.

Oh my lover—
It’s over.
I’m sorry,
I have to let go.
It was lovely
to know you
from the
same room—
It’s over.

The cold
wind blows,
laughter
echoes loud.
The young
night glows
a circus light
show at my
school.

Blurred faces—
some I
recognized
under their
white smiles,
know what’s
at stake.
They speak
the name to
which I can’t
shake what
aches—

A soul I’m
afraid to lose.
A soul I can’t
speak to
nor reach.

Running like
a rabbit into
the dark
forest library.
Chapters of
painful poems
and shattered
memoirs.

“Tick…”
“Tick…”
“Tick…”

Then a sound
of my alarm
clock—
screaming.

I wake up,
scared and
isolated again,
lying in bed—
breathless.
My real
nightmare—
I never
reach you—
Or maybe…
never see
you anymore.

As I sit
on isolated
grounds of the
library covered
in cobwebs,
I hear a sound—

A sound
of dusted
silence.
My own
words echo.
No shadow
approached—

Nor has
found me—
like a dusty,
forgotten book
filled with
broken memoirs.
Left waiting
in the poetry
aisle—
left unread.

Oh Clumsy,
Clumsy Child,
always falling
into wild
fantasies and
Mad Tea Parties.

Always stranded
in haunted forests
for endless days—
Tangled in
vines of hurt—
Covered in cuts
and open wounds.
Running away
from your own
shadows as the
raven echoes—

Drowning in oceans
of fragmented emotions.
So injured,
you can’t speak
what is spoken.
Astray in crowded
places where loud
souls breathe as
your voice fades.

Oh Clumsy,
Clumsy Child—
Where will you go?
Trapped beyond
The Hidden Hills,
lost your way.
Will you ever
find your home—
Or forever
wander along
the forest roads?

My Emotions,
my screams—
muffled.
Left to decay
behind your
colorful walls
you decorate—

My Essence,
buried under your
etched, wooden
floor boards.
Hidden beneath
the rugs you
stand on—

My Heart,
hung higher than
The Hanged Man
from your ceiling.
Exposed like
a chandelier,
yet only held
vulnerable by
a thin rope.
Ready to snap
and let go—

My Soul,
cold and restless.
Locked in
tight behind
closed doors—

My Shadows,
walk forever
down your
hollow halls.
Trapped inside
The House of
Bitter Horrors
it holds.

Dear critics—
and for those
who read this,
I believe
you may
or may not
notice—

Maggots,
crawling inside
my ribcage,
gnawing me alive—
I’ve vanished
without a trace.
I hope you hate me.
It’s so tragic—
I’ve quit, erased
my magic that
made me ache
to exist—
**** it.

Illusions spread,
warm imagination
turns dead cold,
trapped in a room
with broken hands,
barely standing.
It’s tragic—
I quit magic.
Moments burn—
ghostly “friends”
turn into critics,
watching the last
trick unfold—

The Dead Magician
vanish into thin air.
Pulled in isolation’s
crooked hands
behind closed
curtains.