Preciousness in a bite
It is the taste of hope
That I choose to savour
After every bitter tragedy

Sweetness in a breath
It is the scent of hope
That I choose to take in
After every stench of disappointment

Gentleness in a look
It is the sight of hope
That I choose to see
After every soreness in the eye

Bliss in a thought
It is the memory of hope
That I choose to remember
After every pound of headache

Happiness in a soul
It is the feeling of hope
That I choose to feel
After every shattering of the heart

I shall call you,
Miss Loneliness,
In your laceless little dress,
You; glorified red mess,
Leave soon before I obsess,
Pulled me into an abyss,
But you missed,
I shan't miss you,
Or will I?
Adieu

my words foam up and come out in squeaks and stutters
and i always say all the wrong words
and embarrass you in front of your friends
my words are spat, not spoken when we're fighting and i'll say
anything anything anything
even if it is so cold and so acidic that my chest hurts
after it's left my throat
my words are too loud, too harsh, too demanding
empty promises snorted away
over and over again

your fingers tracing my thigh
and you look at me like you want to memorize every part

what a difference a year makes

you sneer at me from across the room
the only way people know we're together is when someone else tells them

i can't blame you for giving up on me
i can't blame you for falling out of love
i can't blame you for seeking comfort in someone else

i'm still here
and i'd do anything to be what you want again

my words don't mean
much of anything
anymore

The things I would trade
To go back to the day
Before darkening storm
Took my happiness away

I'm thinking...

I want to ask...
Are you alright?

(I am concern)

Inside machinery lies
Grey metal gears of all size

When everything is aligned
And all is right
They slide past another
Each tooth holding on to the other

The gears inside my machinery however
Could be in a condition much better

Bent and broken
Some circuits don't turn
Grinding and grinding
For relief they yearn

The grease that allows gears to slide
Should be maintained
There should be no grind
No grease should be as black as mine

But black can look alright
On a backdrop of white

When I press a page
Against my gears
The most beautiful patterns
Tend to appear