dear intractable self,
do forgive me
for all the times
i spent your love
without chasing
consent

dear faultless self,
do forgive me
for all the pillars
i built
sightless
and infinite

dear moving self,
i forgive you
for when
you ran away
and left me
with my
dearest emotions

tous le monde,
ou sont-ils?
sur la rue de la vie
pour tojours

passion upon a roaring sea;
sailors know the waves settle some
            but the storm must first pass;
            a predicted impossible.

I am married to my brain,
its a
life long
partnership
that I
never agreed to.

When did you
decide
to be born,
is it not
a violation
to split
the thread
of the universe
with your
birth
like a
bullet
to the
brain.

We're in love,
you see,
deeply
submerged
in each
other,

we'll never part,
or,
we'll positively die
if we do.

Marriage is a
battle,
its a
war zone,
but in ours
there are no words,
only thoughts,
that never leave,

until
we part,
until
death do us part.

And my brain
wants
a
divorce.

He glitters
with the
empty valleys
of his
own
beautiful
treachery

such beauty
on one
human
is surely
a sin

is surely
the thief
that has
stolen
my breath

is surely
the eyes
that burn
blushes against
my
arched
skull

he is
more than
what he
seems

it is
fated so
that he would
be
magical
and
mirthless
and

miraculous

mon amour,
je ne sais pas le francais,
mais je vais etudier ca pour tu.

salad swirls
I peer into your depths
lettuce leaves
splayed seductive
unpeeled forest green liver skins
green thumbs
red palmed
'tis only a Sunday brunch

me and you,
we go together like cherries and cream,
we're too sweet,
my teeth ache,
and the pip sticks in the back of your throat.

me and you,
its always in that order,
me then you,
and some days I regret it,
that our thoughts don't swirl together in a rainbow of unison,
but we're different people,
and I sometimes matter.

me and you,
I think long ago,
we might have been real,
but then,
the world woke up,
and righted itself.

me and you,
were just a bad dream,
and I've never been good,
at remembering.

i am grateful
for this
winding wending
second path

a clamped hold
as if
to let go
is to fall
indefinitely

this pressure
this hearty pulse
reminds me
of
how it feels
to be alive

i close my eyes
i pay my debts
i sleep until
all is returned
and
tomorrow, we feast
on the rewards
of carefully articulated
self care

Often mistaken
As a neighbour
To the roofed cliffage
Of a thousand speckled
Imaginings

There is no beauty
In the dark friends
That rip and thunder
In our shared
Night sky

Despite all our efforts
We are trapped
By the spectacle
Of sadness
In denial

the ulcers in my stomach twist in tune with your lyricism,
my ears twitch, unbidden, heed your call of candy,
your words, my teeth ache as if you had scoured me dry,
I lick my lips to try and remember the taste,

a mystery would be if you had stayed,
your absence, rather, is a settlement of expectation,
I humble myself when lying down in your indentations,
the bed still holds the impressions of your body
- yet my memory fades

I squint my eyes in the dark,
so long, so tuned out, that they ache,
in the dark I can also see the exact shade of your eyes,
but come morn it fades to whispers.

rocked up on distant shores
agedness personified coos to heavenly heathens
heaving and hulling her breath
we all hold hands in the indefatigable oceanic states
beauty by fire; burn the sea to salt stone sacrifice

In the business
Of Ending Worlds
I grant
mankind and his children
the curse of
Greed
Envy
Sloth
and,
Guilt.

In the business
Of Preserving Misery
I grant
all who heed me
all who hear me
all who fear me
the singular
inability
of an individual
to change the
tide.

A lie,
I say,
unwonted.

Iconoclast to
my own
stability.

I wish
I knew
when the
fire
reached my
own
fingers.

I wish
I knew
the smell
of
burnt
flesh.

I am
watching myself
tied to this
vengeful stake
and clapping,
slowly,
almost realising,
that I am
the
match.

I leave my window open
god
I never pray for
may creep inside
in the night
rescue me from
this figure
inside my skin.

It bears no name
my hollowed shell
for the best
as with a name
comes power
and more sway
over the tides of my fluttered grip
over the glint of such ceasing sharpness
seizing spluttered breaths
throwing down a maiden's gauntlet
for god fears this spectre
more than I
its tangibility precedes its face
and I feel the icy fingers
long before
I pray.

untasted words leave the lips of the mercury man,
he is slim and sublime,
attenuated to the bridge of his nose,
but his trunk is thick and sturdy

he holds impermeability,
is too still and stubborn for lovers,

mercury man slips through my fingers,
but danger remains.

Likened to a wave,

the overhead cloud ringing out
mutterings of daffodils and burps of bees
the land resists, smooth and indefatigable,
persisting tirelessly,

rolls of sharpened grasses
rising up in an unheeded swarm
the breath halts in the chest
like a grand mistress unsheathing her sword,

we siphon off the dregs of courage
bottle out the bravery
there are mountains of battles to fight
and only a mind of resistance tonight.

I have nothing beautiful left to say,
only the awkward sound of the
crinkled up chip packet
the crumbs dust my fingers
like police ink on my thumbs
and I lick them clean
blood painting my tongue red and
heartwarming.

I am empty within my eyes,
only left with soulless husks of
before
before the wind howled my bedroom shut
before the screaming storm hid my screams
before the rain that trickled in through the cracks in the ceiling
hid my tears from sight
before the footsteps that banged like metal plates
hid the fist banged against the inside of my cavernous mouth.

I am full,
expanded like a hot air balloon
filled to the brim until my
throat is slicked in slimy truths
and my stomach pushes at my
ribs
my heart hangs heavy like Christmas baubles
within the cavity of my chest
which is slowly being
filled by the
butterflies brewing
within my tonsils.

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.

that moment
split second
caught within
the beat
of the heart
and the
exhale
of the lung
and the
semi
half
demi
quarter
turn
of the gnarled nail

in that
infinitesimal breath
of denial and deep surrender

the world creaks

and the window shatters
into a rainbow of glittering shards
and you sing
and dance
in the guilty pleasurable rain
your skin rattles
with the hydra's teeth
scaled dry fingers
gripping your own leg

and yet you dance
and stare so longingly

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.

A monster
lies in wait
shrouded in dark
festooned in
onyx curls
of brilliant
disguise

its teeth
are as long
as my arms
and I wonder
how long
it has hidden
in my veins
like poison
its nails
brushing against
the bed
of my own

I dare not blink
not sleep
don't move
I am insensate
and frozen
this pitiful
state
has only just
begun
but it feels
as if I have
layed here
for eternity

the monster
never leaves
although
sometimes
it sleeps
and I taste
the infuriating tease
of lush reprieve

it always
comes back
no matter
how far
I shove
it down.

Maybe there is a reason for that.

Moonlight:


I think it is time
to stop this kerfuffle soon
before it has won

the achy heart pounds
it does not understand me
rather it would fight

my ears curl like leaves
they resemble elven sharps
they quiver so kind

maybe I have wrought
the tides to sweep me home to rest
and loose my stiff bones

a child does not ask
why a man holds his tongue well
do not ask me twice

the tree is evil
its bark collapsed by its plan
and I watched it fall

do not rhyme or sleep
slumber is for the deadened
sheep count so beguiled

my heart likes your lips
and my toes curl like your hair
so of course its love.

She holds her hand
to her heart
ears thrumming
like beating drums
from the thumping
that courses like
drugs
under her
golden
skin

She lets air
flood her
lungs full
her eyes
open wide as
she
lets the
tide of
darkness
filter down
into her
vision

she is
monster girl
is
child of
night
is star flecked
freckles and
evening soda
luke warm and
bubbles that
drip
sticky
like blood
down her
cheeks

the tears
taste like
ruined salt
unfiltered and
*****
like her
coarse tongue

she wails
to the
evening moon
which
shines with such
mellifluous
glee
cruelled
amusement
tenderised by the
beating down
upon her
soggy and
dribbling
heart

red paints
the
nails like
polish
she
puffs hot
and
heavy breaths
against the
metallic gleam
her teeth
shine like
canines
from the
howling terrors
of the
engulfing
forest

she howls
to the moon
which shines
with such
jealousy
for she
is more
mysterious.

Should
never have to
face the
thickened
sticky
white and
creamy
cheesy
cliched
wrath and
terror
of her
mother's smile.

Should
never have to
flinch
inside
behind walls
made of
bricks
behind
barricades
of
stone
wrapped
in
bubble-wrap
at her
mother's
glance.

Eyes
should
never
hold
so
much
power
within
the
flash
of
discontent.

She should not
live
on a boat
always
biding time
waiting for
storms to pass
for
waves to
curl
and crack down
upon her
head
down into
the sand
that
holds her
down into
the dark
that
kisses her
goodnight
down into
the brutal
flick
the tap on the
glass
clench
of
the fingers
twitch of
the jaw

should never
have to
wait
for the
mother's roar
to
echo
through the
chamber
of her heart
until
silence
envelopes
her soul
and she
can sleep
without

fear.

Should
never
fear
her
mother's
evening breath
the
gentle and
stilling
exhale
a sigh
a brittle
and
glassed sound
that shatters
against her
tightly
pursed
lips
locked
mouth.

Should never
tell the heart
to
quiet down
and let
her run
like a
good
child
ignoring
the warning
bells
which
everyone else
seems to ignore
the words
that leave
her
stubborn
lips
in the
joke she
tells
the story
she
preaches
the hesitated
eye
widening
limerick

the expected
story
to tell
her
friends

her
mother's
wrath
tastes like
fire in
her belly
sulphur in
her throat
and
metallic
lingerings
of
biting
her tongue
to
suppress
the
screams

'what can you expect'

'my mother gets like that'

'she attacked me'

'but its okay'

'I was stubborn'

I mourn the moon,
always high in the sky
hung like lights
forgotten so soon
stared from afar
red dripped acrylic traced in its outline
taught in schools
quoted in poems and literature
metaphorically stunted
admired and painted
but never understood.

I mourn the moon,
for those who see
do not gaze with no judgement
do always ask for more
do never look close enough
do not befriend the moon
only stare as if
it were
not truly
there.

I mourn the moon,
the crescent moon
that all see broken
as part of a whole
splintered off
separate and incomplete
never stopping
never pausing
to question
if the moon
in shadow
simply likes the
dark.

I mourn the moon,
the beauty
that even I
do not befriend
the mooning orb
that never comes close enough
hanging just off
titled away
axis parched and pursed
afraid to come close
be scorned for
the light.

Reality burns
worse than matches
lit alight
embers in the night
bon fires
born for the burn
that rubs friction
down
my skin
and I
try to escape
the burning chain.

Pain
in the chest
a symptom
they say
I choose heartbreak
its
a
lie
but it sounds
like
a movie
and
its a movie.

Real lives don't taste like drama.

Real lives don't have a taste.

Bitterness
like coffee
I've never
drunk it
so this
isn't real.

The main stream
is a
river of
confusing fish
and I
don't
eat fish.

That's a lie.

This is
my book
to write
so I
choose
to write
nonsense.

Its a movie.
Not a book.
And there's
no ending yet.

I've considered ending.

Its a movie
its fine
just a movie
its fine
bitter movie
just fine
that's okay
just a movie.

My movie
is one
people choose
to ignore
until the
credits roll
and they
can act
like they
liked it.

you can't outrun your mind
but you can escape in dreams
i'm tearfully wakeful
because i am afraid of
pleasant feelings
and undeserved
memories

I pour the contents of my heart's whim onto paper
it shrivels with fear
beating like the chittering teeth of a freezing Eskimo
I poke it,
ever cautious,
with a long pointed stick
It shudders
flinches
jumps five whole feet
as if struck by lightning
I decide to replace the poor hairy beast
opening up my chest,
reconnecting all the loose wires,
and closing the whiny mechanical door.
The hinges squeal like hungry piglets
I burp, and say, "Ah, s'just heartburn."

what begins as a game
always ends as war
as I forgo my speech
twist tongues to silence
such an act lives in danger
what begins as rebellion
always ends as a netted trap
my arms are the panicked fish
bodies flayed as they drown in oxygen
I breathe in my idiocy
not to speak
it is to surrender blissfully

myself is an abstract concept,
for everyone action is a reaction and in prospect pause about the surroundings,
myself is for madmen
and scholars.

it is a brilliant yellow budgie squawking out in the dawn,
its beaded eyes reflect like sharps for dappled sun,
the girl with the yellow raincoat twists her hips,
she imagines the budgie's wings could cover her skin quite fashionably.

The wave lilts,
lulls and ebbs in time with morning croons,
we all shelter our tired eyes,
watching white horses as they race to their dooms.

hundreds of scrolls of poems leave my lips,
but to read is to surrender,
thus the song plays on.

Trust
that soon these feelings will end
Hope
that my fears are only self-esteem
Fear
that I'm right about everything
Fury
that I am not strong enough to lift myself out

Out, out, out,
so wide and overt,
so overflowing and grand,
when the belly button pops,
open like a cork,
spilling juices and fresh bubbles,
we let out crooked smiles grace
the night.

Out, out, out,
with windows handing agape,
out eyes closed,
but there are slits,
cracks in the walls,
crevasses and tunnels,
secret fortunes to be broken,
so that the wolves,
hidden and growling,
in the walls,
can shake their sodden pelts,
and poke wet noses into the light,
we watch,
from our stone beds,
our eyes narrowed hallways
of spies and
clandestine destiny.

Out, out, out,
the door is ajar,
one push,
and the world will lament,
and cease,
out, into the wildness,
there is wilderness in these rooms,
hallowed halls conceal jungle,
long looming forests,
the dark undergrowth that
hides decrepit creatures in shadow,
only eyes glinting,
there is a sublime here,
a mottled verse,
only those with their hearts out,
can be lent the care of others,
and see the secret beings hidden in the cracks.

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.

butterfly shells
clipped wings
the ocean curls and crashes
beyond the reef
I umbrella-shade my eyes
cast shadows over overhead sunlight
the glimmer blinds
so prettily
and I swallow all contention
like sand-crusted fried food
It's a kind day at the beach
the clouds grace us with their presence
and I spit out my insurrection, my envy
of such shrouded calm
wafts of cloud, like pink bubbly fairy floss
so sweetly
like a wind-cuffed boat
choked by destiny
we watch the sun bathe down into the ocean
submerged bleeding orange into an obsidian eye, a pearl of blue
don't say I didn't warn you, says the storm
rumbling, grumbling,
toiling and boiling
I've been on this horizon all my life, it growls
little more than petulant lightning
I've never trusted thunder
all bark and no bite
but I believe in this shark-storm if only for the palate of streaked colour
the sky is a wanting canvas
my eyes are needy spectators
the soggy chips are artesian entrees
and the butterfly clips refuse to mount and swoon
So
the recipe is baked; a perfect storm
a pointed knife, carved cataclysm
a catchechism of the repentant earth
we only see the sun sleep
when it knows it's been bad.

welcome to the
haunted hallowed hawthorn
home
we open our
skeletal facsimile
beams
and let you
in

down
down
follow the
whispered chant
it will
beckon
it will
taste
but never
shall you
deign it
'surrender'

fluttered pieces
flickered flesh
muttered misters
and loneliness

we chastise
the vacuous abyss
of your eyes

blink

i dare you

will you
gaze
your grips
on fettered
sounds
the imprisoned
moans
of innocent
souls
it bites, it cleaves, it runs, it rams

but does it sing, my darl?
does it light up your world?

their treasured yawn
is taste enough
so hear me,
hear me,
for naught but the buttered price
of
princely royalty.

Harrowed eyes
beckon
from the
shades of
jacaranda branches

it is
almost poetic
how false
true pain
can
shine

almost
like a
lip
bitten and
hacked
down to
the
stumps of
flesh
trying to
pursue
a mimicry
of joy

'oh hail'
'oh hail'
the sunshine
bellows
from the
gallows
the glinting
rusted
metal
so alike
your eyes

'oh rain'
'oh rain'
'Tis not
rain but
mellowed
waterfalls
falling from
the heavens
with the
most
regal
of graces

'oh mine'
'oh mine'
the haunted
quail
of a
hunter
beneath
jacaranda shades
rattles
and hisses
like the
exotic beast
within her skin

'oh do'
'oh nay'
is the echoed
tantalizing
that never
lets up.

the pull is strong tonight
i do not know the fullness of the moon
but there is a bleak, waning, reflective light
within me
i have not been outside myself in days
flush with memory
with repeated history
i close my eyes and absorb the yearning tide
that goes over me

She tells me it is
only poetry.

It is only words
writ from her fingers
only similes and
metaphors for
the empathy she possesses
it is not her
she says
she does not
think or feel
in this noticeable way
she is not a wall
for others to break
she is not a
canvas for her own
fingers to draw upon
she is not the sun that is
blinding her
she does not look away from
herself.

She does not stare
too long
into the reflective
mirrors that do not
catalogue her
soul.

She does not stare
she tells me
she does not write
she tells me
it writes her
it consumes her
it flows from the sunlight
rays that
hit through the
blocked up
shards of her
open window

she does not
sit on the sill
and wonder

she only writes it
it is not her own
hand that curls the letters
it is not her own poetry
she tells me
it is only words
it does not
feel the
way she
does.

She tells me
she has not written
herself
onto a page
has no blood
or tears
imprinted
upon those
leafs of
paper.

I know
if I
were to pull
up her
sleeve
I would
find
scars.

She tells me
it is only
a poem.

I swallowed my tongue
but I didn't choke down

Seagulls whispered their prayers
in that funny chip-stealing way of theirs
those opposite eyes
and burning beaks
they flew me down

I took the ocean
one swing, gone
I burned it to the ground
and although that seems fake
everything does these days

Paint me reckless,
with dotted eyes of unencumbered possibility,
rouged blushes of flushed athletic extremes,
paled hair that flows like waterfalls and broken valleys.

Dream me loving,
so that my gentle smile shines as bright as the waking sun,
my womanly embrace is as comforting as the silent moon,
eyes flash with consuming devotion, wide open and hoping for reciprocated picnics.

Curl me 'round the shadow of your doubt,
and I will be a voice of infinite confidence,
booming with the power of the earth as it spins on before and after,
the titled nonsense of nature, bringing you up to the skies before dropping you back into the hands of men.

Stamp me goodness,
with a golden halo of invisibility,
heroes shine of selfless deceptive gratitude,
blue quake of the ocean's roar, to sweep you away from dreams of darkness...

into the burgeoning belly of the hydra,
paint it homely,
and within its stomach will become yours.

She is past tense,
I do not know her anymore,
She is not me anymore,
I am cold to her,
I insult woman of past tense,
I pull at her hair and scream in her ears.

I am not her,
I plead,
I am not her,
She does sound like me,
She smells as I smell,
of autumn leaves,
baby steps, and
despair infringing on a perfect photo,
She is not me.

I remember her like I was her,
I will swear the monster she is, she has tricked me,
I slap her across the cheek,
Quiet you,
She is not allowed to speak any longer,
She is no longer me,
She cannot dictate my decisions.

I speak of her in past tense,
As if I am not hurting myself,
As if I am no longer her,
As if we do not suffer the same fates and memories.

She whispers for forgiveness,
I look down with cold eyes,
My heart clenches for her,
It aches in my chest like a bruised bone,
Spitting acid rain against her burned and brittle cheeks,
I would not treat a real person this way.

She claws at me for an embrace,
Love yourself the kinder person in my head preaches,
Holding my hand, as if I had not hurt myself enough,
As if my hands were not covered in my own blood,
She is curled in the corner of the room,
Sobbing for my forgiveness,
Pleading to know why I defile her so.

I turn away,
She is not me,
It is okay to hate her,
Even when that means I hate myself.

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.

Perhaps it is fated,
has it not always seemed so,
that I would be here
you be there
and the trees continue on their terrible voyuerism.

Perhaps it was always meant to be,
the smothered doubt we carry,
the sights we set to see,
but never seem to absorb,
like oil cruising on water.

Perhaps I have it wrong,
this song of mine which plays like a record,
and the record is not broken,
but I play it anyway,
over and over until the taste hangs heavy on my tongue.

Words grow stale like bread,
it doesn't take long.

Perhaps I have been walking in a way that is not walking,
skipping past the important parts,
jumping over the things that matter,
standing still in the dark puddles of my youth,
staring at you from afar.

Perhaps I truly am the villain of this movie,
deluded to think I have a semblance of good,
only to be consumed by the knowledge,
lies,
that I am the toxic entity that has ruined this life of mine.

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.

The stubble tells a story:

got up. drunk. head pounding. knew i'd had too much last night. fridge is full. what did i sell. what do i have to do to get it back. i need more. more. fills me. the calm. i have it under control. but I need more.

razor. gone.

choice: razor or drink.
choice: razor or drugs.
choice: razor or rent.
choice: razor or girlfriend.
choice: razor or smokes.

not really a choice.