20 years and a Bottle,
not much has changed
between the mother
rubbing whiskey on her
infant's gums
and the girl that stands tall now
drinking it from a cup.

Abandon me
in the house
so I may
learn to grow
on my
own.

Aesthetic
(es-Thee-Thicc)
ADJECTIVE

1. When he looks at me with the eyes of angel, mouth in a closed line, eyes pleading for more.
2. Wind-swept hair, ocean sea breeze, cold yet gentle waves, remind me of his heartbeat.
3. Roses in the winter time, soft petals of a cheek blossom with rosy warmth.
4. Honey, you're so much more than an aesthetic to me.

My soul is tripping on aesthetical acid.

Star dust is my *******.

There's no way the moon
is not just a hallucination
wavering in the pond's ripples. 

I pop sunrays like pills.
Bathe in warm illicit senses.
Heat overtakes me,
on a high I refuse to come down from.

Beauty is a drug; it takes away the pain.

There is aestheticism
buried in the depths
of this earth,
in the sun's heat
and in the moons rain.
However hidden it may
attempt to be,
I will always
pursue
it.

I fell in love with her
not like a lover
but a soulmate.

I wish not
to taint her skin
with my touch,

but rather
admire her forever
from afar.

The difference between you and I,

is that I am a women, and you are a boy;
although around the same age,

my trauma matured me,
while yours trapped you as a child.

All is fair in love and war,
so do not be surprised when the roses of my love wilt into stems,
sickled with thorns.

I love you,
so much.
Every day goes by and I miss you.
As a poet I try to find multitudes of beauties to write about
and you have managed to be every one of them.
To be graced by your presence
once a millenia
is honor enough to last a lifetime.

I feel like the stars sent you here,
a comet zooming through space
that landed in the forest
where you grew ethereal
and beautiful.

I adore you.

I am back to my middle school self

I can feel my bones decaying back to
that little 5'1 girl,
hiding in the back of class,

shoulders hunched with pressure
for perfection,
worry etched in lines
on her thighs.

The child no more but not quite the adult yet,
sitting down to eat alone.

Alone, I enjoy it.

No one to worry about, no one to care,

Alone,

I can die, Alone, without a soul left to haunt me.

Alone,
Waiting for freedom,

was death what I was waiting for?

Alone.

Alone and Alone
I write these words twice
so at least
they have company.

Her corpse careens
through the night.

Pacing up and down
till morning light.

Her soul returns with sunrise
and her body now not a fight.

Take away her pain,
strip her of the sight.

A need for the darkness,
to numb the pain onsite.

She lives another day,
breaths another night.

Take away her sunburns
for moonlight.




She is alive and alright.

The ambience of your presence is one I treasure.

Am I the monster that bore the gun?
Or just the bullet
that came
out
of
it.

And here I am yet again,
Waiting at the door,
melancholy no more,
begging for freedom,
picking the scenery apart,
down to the bone.

Cool purples and blues,
play in the night,
I know now what's
behind me,
I know not what's in my sight.

I wear grief like a look,
on the edge of freedom
begging to be let loose,

but

staying in the house,
imagining freedom,
rather than face
the disappointment
that it truly is.

Think between drags of a cigarette,
do I dare excite myself?
Or drown the hope
before it drowns me?

No time for deep breaths here,
just existence
on a celestial plane.

.
.
.

And here I am yet again,
Waiting at the door,
melancholy no more...

She smells like summer rain
and wet hair.
Like the forest after a storm
drowning in the sky's blessings.
She walks like chaos,
a cacophony of arms and legs
that jolt in the direction of travel.
She stands tall, with dark undereyes
and a dress that stops flowing
around her waist
but does not end
until **** near
her feet.
She stalks the night like a pedator and prey
all in one.

And she looks at me.

Late night walking,
basking in the glory of the moon,
and contrasting street lights
with midnight escapades
are blooming in
morning glory again.

Angelecism is a pursuit
worthy of Gods
but taken up by
Devils
galore.

Angels run the chaos I've collected in my head, what's there left to see?
Their ashes pure and soft feathers, they fly high and mighty on their wings.
Angel tears are made of sugar, and your love, oh so sweet. You are the angel of my life darling,

playing this poem on repeat.

At best,
angels are devils
playing nice.

The sky is stained
with wine,
as lazy clouds
move hungover
towards the sun.

My demons hide in Angel's skin
A disguise I know all too well.
Deceive me with their hopeful feathers,
Familiar claws so loving in touch.
I know it's a trap.
But I crave intimacy.
Sweet eyes that burn hellsfire
Bring me warmth in a look.
I wrap myself
In the cloak of their promises
And hide deep
In the crevices of their costume.

I hunger for this world,
unaware
there is another.

My mere existence
deserves apology.

The scent of autumn
was woven between
strands of her hair.

Who knew
that a body as soft
as feathers
could have
a heart
of
stone.

She is rolling thunder,
a stoic figure with grace and presence.
She dresses herself
as a storm
with dark clouds
and lightning.
Her laughter rings
throughout the heavens
and sailors fear her,
as they should.

And I wear her aura
like a bracelet
on my wrist,

the same way
I wear my boots
in the fabric
of my own skin.

You never really know how bad it was















































until it's over.

She's got a baseball bat
filled with ambition,
and a sharp light to her eyes
full of survival's will.

She's that hard to love
kind of bad ***.
The kind that will muffle sobs
with liquor.

She's the kind of love
forged in the depths of Hell
and *******
rather than
fluffy romance novels.

She knows what its like to be trapped.
So she holds the shackles
above her head.

She didn't realize she broke her arm
and lost pieces of herself
getting out of it.

It was not her fault she was born in chains
But it is her fault that she broke out of them.

For better or worst now,
the cracks in her soul
were filled with attitude.

And God, did I fall for it all.
The careen of her smile,
made me stay for a while.

She's the hard to love kind of bad ***,
and she's on the run again.

From problems to police you name it.

But she will laugh like her flannel soul
hidden in the wind.

And she will drown in her liquored ambitions
once more.

You've battered me with your silence
only to shatter me
with your words.

I am the wild beast they fear,
however,
impeccable control keeps inner linings
intact.

I await for the day,
that I am allowed to unleash
the *****
you called by name,
but
never
got
to
see.

Beauty is pain,
and acceptance is the painkiller.

People like you,
put meaning behind
the word
Beautiful.

I've been acting like
who I want to become
more than
who I actually am.

Her eyes were that Heineken bottle green,
and her spirit bubbly,
a cold touch
to a warm soul
I got drunk in her love


















And I never regretted it.

Here I lay
at morrow's feet,
begging for yesterday's grace
to fill me once more,
so I may face the dawn.

Who am I
But the shadow
Of who I want to be
And the people
I've left
Behind.

Monsters do exist,
simply in the stories we create.
They are indeed real,
but within pages and programs,
not
behind
you.

Her smile sits
on the curb of a road
between Summer
and Fall.

Moonlight pools at feet,
sunlight perfumes the air,
daytime sings of spring,
and night screams beware.

Flowers in the daytime,
thorns in the evening.

Beware those who are night and day.
They will capture you
in sunrises and sin,
but sunset calls,
and oh boy,
will they answer.

My aesthetic is bike grease,
hands covered in slippery oil,
a night's ride full of fun,
adventure rolling like the wheels.

If you catch a bird
who doesn't wanna be caught
do not complain
when its talons
dig deep into your skin
and leave
their marks
there.

I cup you in my hands
and imagine
that the size of your heart
is that of a fingernail;

Sometimes I worry
my love for you is so great
that it will crush you.

I knew a girl that bled bouquets,

her tears perfumated with the sweet scent of sorrow,

and I fell in love with the way she wore her pain.

I pick at the scabs,
left in my mind
from falling off
my destined path.

Blood breaks the barrier,
and tears spill anew
with it.

I throw ****** feathers aside,
looking for the fallen angel,
whose wings have vanished
into thin air.

I don't think
she remembered what it was like
to be holy,
but God,
did she emminate it.

Her blood held crucifixes,
gold chains,
still chains.

Eyes held heaven in their capture,
and she holds me
in captivity.

I found her above dark grounds,
but with gold dust of an old halo.

Am I blessed with her,
or cursed to admire from afar
for eternity.

Her pure soul,
not to be tainted with
my mortal hands.

To be simply in her presence,
is
heaven
enough.

The depths of your soul
Are an ocean blue
Beautiful clarity at the shore,
Delightful surprises in the dark.

I did not spend eternity,
cowering in the masses,
hiding in books,
and disguising in
danger,

only to have you,

strip me bone-licking naked

in front of an audience
of
your
choice.