I look at the clock,
     waiting for you to get home.
I speak,
      only to be cut off.
You look at me and sigh. . .
     You are always right. . .
So please get your things and go. . .
     my heart pleads no, but my mind knows
there is no love, no warmth
     and that's okay,
        I'll be okay. . .

Blue, iridescent hues of oceanic blue.
Green, startling twinkles of fauna,
Brown, strong mountains of emotions,
Black, losing my self in your abyss.

Such beautiful e̶y̶e̶s̶, that see me.
Within their reflections, I see myself
lost, broken, damaged, quick to fall into their spell.

Have you ever laid on the floor, as you stared at the cosmos of paranoia and depression of your creation thrusting you into damnation?
You are quick to give advice (pre-judgement),
but unless you licked the patch,
    to cover the constant itch that burns in your heart,
       you have no clue. . .
of the sea of solitude that ever wraps you, within its cursed cradle,
  the song of longing as each day passes, grows louder,
      the voices in your head that counsel you,
           the feeling of elation as the demons take you. . .
you have no clue. . .
   no ******* clue. . .
you are quick to judge. . .
      as I die living. . . in a state of constant elation.

Baby let me help redesign you,
you are a work of delipidated art,
Let me restore your shine,
      your luster, your being,
                  you. .  
                      for that is perfection. . .
                             or close to it. . .

This Christmas,
   I do not ask for a lot,
      I simply wish to dream eternally,
                  so we may meet once more
just a second in time, to ask for forgiveness for who I became.

Inside my polished surface,
my seas are in constant disarray,
the soul, its sweet nectar that fills every crevice.
violent; angry; bitter soul.

Inside my mental shell of self protection,
and the "person" it protects
from the poison that spews from my heart
my soul speaks to me; it reminds me I am weak
violent; angry; bitter soul.

I know well that there is no escape,
no sculptor can prefect; the stone that is broken
no painter can fix; the lines that have bled
no poet can create; emotions which no longer exist
I drag the stones of my own damnation
eternal ; violent; angry; bitter soul.

As time passes, my exterior becomes unpolished
manicured hands become wrinkled and weak,
legs of harden meat, become toothpicks
time is constant,
there is no escape,
but one thing remains
my eternal, violent, angry bitter soul. . .
    that weeps for you. . .