With the last few red strands between us, I chose to be enraptured/enthralled/captivated/incapacitated.


With the last few red strands between us, you chose to be choleric/enraged/unwilling/adamantine.


Weaving our strands back together,
We chose enlightenment/humility/symbiosis/nurture.


Stoked my flames
Freed your spirit
In slavery there is happiness
In a bond of two there is freedom
Chains interchangable
Fingers entwined
A mutual fatality
An ubiquitous invitation

For this is everlasting, everlong.

Sun blazes down on the back of morons

Wind tears posture off their feet

Fighting for a foothold on what will never be, will never appear.

We feel so bad. We're feeling so terribly out of    place

So we
          sink

               Deeper
                 Harder


There is a macabre beauty in not knowing :
Becoming apprehension machines.

A spark that explodes

The touch that withers

Fires that never die off

Kisses for eyes that close forever

Feet that lose their rhythm

Salves that never heal

Prayers that go unanswered

Justice that is never served

Hate destroying all we have dear

The perfect drug.

Something odourless,

Something tasteless.

Untraceable,

Near-impossible to manufacture,

With extremely high levels of addiction.

Withdrawal symptoms from mild to severe, ranging between loss of appetite to psychosis.

A most delicate

Almost deliberate

Basic instinct

I don't need a Khadijah.

Neither do I want an Delilah.

A little bit of what Freud said,

And unhealthy doses of Darwinism.

I'm stuck in a perpetual state of being,

I'm stuck in a constant cycle of repetition.


You can't have your cake and eat it.

But for now, the tunes will simmer, strain and boil my feelings.


With the curling of fingers down your face.

Body marked by scars
Heart full of holes
Mind filled with cracks
Soul smeared with taint

But you were the best I ever had.

The loudest of the bunch
With sleeves wrapped down

With multiple layers on
Twinkle in his eye


The meekest of the few
With shoulders hunched and huddled

With nary a word to describe her
Too much of a wallflower


By chance, or by fate.
Just the two of them,

Bound by a moment in time forever.

The boy with his scars,
And the girl with her demons.