Poetry is as dark as night
It is a mortal sin which crawls like bugs under my skin and makes me think
Sweet painful absolute thoughts
Of ****** truths and naked insults.

Poetry, you beast, foul creature I've possessed
You make me try to see myself
Make me try and let the walls down and
Drop my achy mouth from its plastic smiles.

Don't make me understand, or realise
That all will be better soon
Don't sing praises and preach quotes
Of rainbows and green fields.

Let me wallow in my misery
Moan of 'oh woe the world is cruel to me'
Bypassing guilt and self hatred and
Eye opening openness.

Don't fill my ears with cries of
'Could have been worse'
'At least you're not them'
'You have a family'
'Don't be so selfish'.

Poetry you sinful pleasure, you crooked slash across my throat
Don't force me to call you beautiful
When you are treacherous
And push me too far.

I want
For once
To cry
And not say to myself
'at least you don't want to die'.

I want
To sing my problems
And
Hear no snide comments
About how 'I aint the only girl with issues'

Poetry, you expressionistic trench-coat
Shield me with your overused rhymes and metaphors
Oh, poetry, I beg of you, curl your arms around me tight
So I won't feel so cold with only myself

And those voices

Begging

Tauntingly

Pleading

With me not to cry.

Poetry, treasure trove of my soul
Let me pour all my crap into you
So its gone
From me
And I don't have to carry it any longer
With red raw hands and splintered nails
From scratching at the surface too long.

Poetry, tree for me to burn black and blue
Let me bruise you
Let me tear my pages
Draw insulting doodles on your skin
Covering my writing.

Poetry is my deepest valley
Filled with things I just can't say
Piled high with problems I don't want to comprehend
Compressed until people just

Look away

And convince themselves.

Hands linked in broken chains of blinding freedom,
She could hardly speak it was so beautiful,
So open and calm, like the break of dawn only just bleeding orange over the hills,
Animals waking from their slumber, men waking next to their wives with starlight in their eyes.

Love, a cure and illness so contradictory and poisonous,
Addictive in the most beautiful and traitorous way,
It was fate to **** for love, to die, to live, to remember,
Such harsh truths written and remembered,
And she was at the verge of it all.

She stood, head tilted back to the sky, catching reflected beauty of clouds on her neck,
Feet dangling over the rickety and dangerous edge of a water fall,
Steam rising in mighty waves, splashing water against her naked face,
Arms held out in triumph and freedom,
The scars of old rope burns healed into white marks of forgotten history.

Children cried at the burning glory of it,
The peace that had entrenched into their hearts and minds like magic,
A pulsing energy that scoped the land away from the harsh reality of war and violence,
They could remember the bitter taste of hunger on their tongues,
Parched mouths and brown beaten sunned backs, red from the scorched heat.

It was over, the crops were sprung up a new,
Rain cleaning away rivers of blood,
Dirt smouldering from explosions and ash sunken fires,
Freedom was ***** and glorious, bright like the deadly majesty of the sun,
Light pooling over the corpses like angelic offerings.

War was gone, and peace had pushed through the roughened land,
It was a bitter but desired coo in their chests,
To remember those that were gone, but to live on in harmony for those that remained,
Peace was not won with flowers and songs,
But with bloodshed,
They were the lucky ones to look upon the gruesome aftermath with hope.

Smelt like scented candles,
Tilted her world on its axis,
And trailed soft fingers down her spine,
Paralleled fingerprints on her hips,
Drawing a sharp intake of breath.

Just friends.

Sure.

Eyes traced over aged lines,
Skimming eyebrows like dates,
Mesmerised by the glory of that boring iris,
Brown eyes,
Chocolate brown,
Dark and brooding,
Curled in expansive beauty.

Sometimes he mentioned it,
How she stared to long,
If she needed a picture,
If she understood they were friends,
And her heartbeat pulsed guiltily in her wrist,
Writhing in agonised worship of his features.

He wasn't pretty like a model,
He wasn't even very average looking,
Dotted with scars,
An oval face,
Nose pricked to obscenity.

God she loved him,
Like the moon loved the sun,
Always keeping her difference,
Gazing from afar,
Breath pooling in hot puffs over his ears,
Gorgeous sculpted ears.

Stubble traced his chin,
Eyelashes were thin and sparse,
Skin rough and textured,
Like a farmer,
Although she knew he had never worked a day in his life.

Ugly,
Oh so ugly,
But so delectable,
So achingly entrancing,
Pulling her eyes away from words and numbers,
Over vast mounds of skin to his,
Unbreakable expression.

He never smiled,
Maybe that was for the best,
She'd probably faint...
He was a deadly man,
And all deadly men had dazzling smiles.

I am a vampire under the full moon,
Live by day,
Cursed by night,
Trapped in a never ending cycle of thought and discord.

My wings spread darkly over open plains,
Casting shadows and whispered ruffles of black feathers,
Bleeding profusely in the morning sun,
Making my spine arch and wince against the heat.

I am a monster,
I know that now,
Forever trapped in the body of a girl,
And haunted of deeds I have not committed.

I ebb and flow with the tides,
Changing soul as they wash in and curl out,
Watching the darkened oceans rise to light with morning,
And seeing morning fail to the bitterness of nighttime.

Come dawn I smile and shine like the sun,
Hug friends as if we were lovers,
Make jokes as if I held humour,
Hold hands as if mine weren't claws.

By dusk the change sets in,
Sinking bones out of place in my skin,
Reflecting battled moonlight off my crimson gaze,
Pulling tears of blood from my bitten lips.

I walk in and out of shadows,
Basking in the treacherous darkness that completes me,
Holding my own bleeding heart in my hand,
And crying as if I had a right to.

At night I am not a girl,
No, when alone and surrounded I am gone,
Off with the breeze,
And my soul is taken by a ghoul of definite cruelty.

Thoughts bleed into my skull,
Drip dangerously down until I am drowning,
Pulling old rhymes and repeated phrases,
Until even the monster is crying inside me.

I hold out a shaking hand,
Lift it up above the tree-line,
Stretching limbs as if they were rubber,
And waiting,
Always waiting,
To see if someone could pull me up.

Monster or not.

He was missing an arm,
It was gone,
Missing,
One morning,
Hacked away,
Blood seeping into his bed,
Hands... Hand trembling,
Shaking,
His whole body, bed, life...
Shaking.

It wasn't a clean cut,
He thought,
As he showered wearing clothes,
It was ragged,
Hacked off,
Unclean and not smooth,
There were scars up his arm,
As if they were reaching for his neck...

To cut his neck too.

He hadn't cried yet,
He couldn't,
His eyes were dry but he was screaming inside,
He turned to liquor,
And it burned like fire down his throat,
Turned to ****,
And made his stomach swing like a metronome,
And head quieten for a while.

It all wore off too soon.

He hadn't slept in weeks,
It felt like weeks,
Minutes branded into his skull,
Tattoos of dates on his arms... arm.

He always forget his arm was missing,
Always forgot he would never see it again,
It didn't seem real,
Felt forced and... broken,
Like he couldn't walk,
Couldn't move a muscle,
Almost afraid he would lose it too.

He didn't leave the house,
Windows rattled ominously,
Fridge screeched emptily,
Bed creaked like a child's scream,
A wail,
A sob,
Broken and complete and so darkly mesmerising.

He thought he would starve,
That his stomach would cave in from the inside,
Walls would tremble in fluctuating burns and hisses,
Eyes rolled back into his head,
Tongue out in disgrace,

Arm. Missing.

He felt like he had lost a limb,
When he had picked up that phone,
Felt plastic against his ear,
The quietened words of concern,
And halting sentence.

Sulphur burned his throat black,
Rubber smelt better than his rotting arm,
Blood looked better than wine.

“She is dead.”

It felt like he was missing a limb.

Staring, casually, with equal amounts of obsession and gazing away,
Foot tapping under desks, with measured patience,
Eyes trailing over long hair and glasses,
Asking if she got the glasses fixed,
Smiling when she replies, and a conversation is struck.

Ignoring the books, a delicate balance of work and talk,
Laughing and remembering why she like her,
Spinning puns and irony into dark humour with a twist,
And perhaps staring at her lips too long.

Watching aimlessly as they part ways,
Her walking sedately off to other friends,
Trying not to stare too long as she leaves,
And look like a lovesick puppy.

Sitting on the bus alone,
Staring outside the window, breath puffing against it,
Missing the time they shared a bus,
Spoke every day in sync,
And now seemed years apart.

Her heart catches in their throat,
As she smiles at it is radiant,
Cheeky perhaps, with a half cynical tilt to her lips,
Just just as alluring.

Invisible love,
I have conjured you from conjecture,
Have twirled your image in my sated mind,
Have gasped mercury down your incorporeal cheeks.

You are fathomless,
Are infallible and mysterious,
All gentle curls and loving smiles,
Eating away at my cursed imperfection.

Invisible love,
I long to see you once more,
To pull your ghostly presence to my side,
And sing you gentle lulllabies.

You are a child,
And aged wine,
Tasting like smoken ham,
And buttered impossibilities.

Invisible love,
I would lead you to the cinema,
Point fingers at those invisible friends of yours,
Whisper sweet nothings of your desires.

Love,
For you do love me,
May you be mine or not,
Twisted symphony of mine mind,
I will always treat you so,
As if you were true.

Truly there.