In love's garden, we wander free,
Picking blooms to show our glee.
Yet, in our grasp, they wither fast
Leaving death where life once last.

How wicked love would be,
To take and not give back to thee.
To cherish and then let fade,
The beauty that our love has made.

Nothing never really scares me…
Not even this fatal dose of paracetamol that can never numb this pain or heal these scars.
Not even this blade that cuts me open, exposing every inch of my body but the true depths of my suffering.
Not even these tears I shed momentarily, in the brief gap between breaths…
Nothing never really scares me.
Not even these stained fragments of memories when Death sang to me…
Instead we danced like fire in wind whirls…
And even though I was ready to die,
I was not ready to give you up.

How sad does this tale get…?
“Strangled by these awful thoughts, a pretty corpse hung on the corner store.”
Delightful as noon and the setting sun…
Yet as cold as rising moon.
.
How evil does this mind get…?
“What are you living for?”,
“All these happy feelings overextended, openly handed to these barbarous hands to gently caress them.”…
.
Or not.
.
You’ve been here before…
before reality.
An arena for battling thoughts…
“She loves me… She loves me not.”
A fight for truths you already know, that which they withhold.
Truths that turn bitter and painful and weigh heavily on your chest…
Still, you hold on…
Bear the aching heart and a heavy chest,
For you love them dearly…
Forever and endlessly.
And for that love,
the end of your journey is nearing.

To this morning that came heavy,
outweighing all that troubles the still of my thoughts.
And these news that leaves your heart weary,
And your soul with open sores…
Alike…
And still pictures remains still.

Shed tears but shared empathy.
Shared fears but shed agony.
Alike…
Still pictures remain still.
And I, still.

Eventually, I shall embrace the quiet of my chest
And the stiffness of my breath.
Eventually, I shall learn to admire the beauty of the dark skies and the cold night.
And the sacrifice of my disintegrating hut.
Eventually…
I shall spend my youth luxuriating in tranquility,
Savoring every mouthful.

I write this with a heavy heart,
For I fear for my life…
My hands are not innocent.
.
.
.
“I’m pouring my soul out,
Have a sip
And feel what I feel.”
.
.
.
It is self-hatred that justifies the horrors I inflict on myself.
It is these very scars that lay perfect
On my flesh…
Like a map…
Pictures the perfect death.

I’m sorry but I miss you…
I miss the days when I’d let my soul burn to keep you snug.
I’m sorry but I love you…
I miss the times when we would share thoughts of the night.
I’m sorry but…
.
.
.
I have set you free but you still have my heart on a leash…
Still!
I’m sorry but…
You’re the only one for me.

…
The earth still sees beauty in what kills it,
…
And those wicked priests, I pray for them!
There were others who cried the same tears,
Begged more from empty eyes…
The earth still sees beauty in what kills it.
‘Jump, jump!’
Their voices throbbed as the drums of war,
So grand a song exacerbating my sores.
Yet, the earth still sees beauty in what kills it.
‘Jump, jump!’
As I stood on the threshold of Fate’s door,
A rare event – tear wipes tear...
The earth may never understand
But these nightmares were never my dreams.
…
The earth still sees beauty in what kills it.
…

Happy kittens know no shame…
no more than the lurking demons in the poet’s head…
No more than the years of tears welled up in the sores of our hearts,
gushing out the awful truths of our jovial façade.
No more than our lives that lacks life,
no more than the pain we keep to ourselves to feel love.
No more than this letter that should’ve been my last…
No more than me,
a failure who’s failed once again to end this terror lived out loud.

We face the South today with faith, as it is only then
we can see the light of the East again.

Let these tears salt my tea,
As bitter reminders of my demise…
For in their flavor,
I taste the pain,
And sorrow's sting that will remain."

“In the deep end…”
I’d already died and you could not save me.

For letting you in,
I have died another foolish death.
.
.
.

Autumn leaves are as a Mother’s love; a golden delight yet the noble of sacrifice.
.
.
.

Like quietus stained as my passion,
I have stayed too long.
...