He is ripping out handfuls of himself
out from his own skin.
Icarus, the feathers you wore,
and spent nights crafting,
you now pull apart
in fistfuls.
The very freedom you worked so hard to
attain,
is the very thing
you
now
destroy.

My skin is my weapon,
stained with blood underneath.
Thick and bullet proof,
and able to form barriers
to the harshness of this world.

I pray that the ghosts
that haunt my bones
and the demons
that line my skin
know what they are doing
because I don't.

Healed wounds do not make for good poetry.

Hear no evil,
see no evil,
do no evil,

I bathe in the sound of his voice,
vocal chords of purity,
wash out the evils I have heard.

Hear no evil,

His body refreshing to the taste,
eye candy so sweet,
he might as well have been made of pure sugar,

See no evil,

His soul too clean,
to be stained with my hands,
so I watch from afar,
and relish in what I can...





Do no evil.

Hellfire remains on display
Of the red rose.
No longer for her destruction
But now, for her beauty.

The gentle petal
Knew thorns and brambles
So well she grew her own.

Fear the gentle one.
For those with soft souls
Where made in
War.

The familiarity of home
Even when Hell
Is a fleeting feeling
Of comfort
And excitement
All in one.

Travelers know it too well.
Nostalgia painted in stains on the walls
A crimson crayon catastrophe
That left us in tears
But God, did it bring back
Memories.

Hell

But familiarity.

It's incredible how we forget
That the warmth
Comes from flames
So quickly.

And how welcoming it feels
When you've been cold.

Home.

Her laugh sounded like wind chimes,
her body holds secrets untold.

Her eyes shone like the moonlight's sky,
her story broken, left to unfold.

Her beauty was an ocean's depth,
and what's been done has been done.

To every line of beauty she has,
a broken one has begun.

When I see God creating life,
I watch as his hands pause
over sculpting your body.

As he takes a moment
to smile slyly at himself
and take pride
in his most beautiful creation.

Ah,
and here we meet again
the soul ******* ghost
of your company
reminiscent of
the sun after the rain;
only to be missed.

I know her name
like she is the air I breathe
the stardust in my veins
the wonder in my eyes.

I want to be tethered
by your presence
to the Earth.
Be the roots
during my hurricane.

You keep me grounded,
and I keep you moving.

I feel as though
my lips have touched
Angel feathers.
I have kissed
the holy;
an honor
and a curse.
For no halo's glow
will live up to
her angelic prose
ever
again.

Homework is inspiration,
written in secretly,
between the lines of due dates,
and boredom.

Listening to music,
whilst studying a sad song,
is my favorite pastime.

Melodies written in poetic prose,
I find them stashed between notecards
of memories I haven't organized.

A folder filled with expressive mathematics,
hides the secret of
a hidden prompt.


And somewhere along those empty desks,
and tattered mess,




I find myself, haunting the hallways of the hollows in my mind...

































once more.



Truly, boredom is the true inspiration, for without it, we would not be motivated to find one.

I love like honey,
slow,
sweet,
and thick.

Hope is the enemy,
veiled with white wings.
It wears rose colored glasses,
and wears
sundresses
next to the moon.

Hope is a friend,
that you must not trust.
For in hope there is beauty,
but action,
there is none.

Hope is now a lover,
so close,
skin stained with my kisses,
ecstasy waits just below her
smile.
Cherry red lips,
I'm losing myself
in her
new
sundress.

Hope is a stranger,
an old love gone cold
to the touch.

Hope is the enemy once again,
but will you learn to tame her once more?

Or will she be your one that got away.

I hope to be
one of those people
who never lets you forget:
you are loved.

There is no law
stating that the holy
are beautiful...
There is a reason
why Hell
is HOT.

At my very core
am I as human
as I was promised
to be?

"You're just human." She told me

"Human" does not mean it's not wrong.

just...









normal.

I pity the fool
who envies angel's
because to become holy
means
losing
your
humanity

Humans are not the black and white
concoctions we want them to be,
they are solid marble statues,
set in liquid stone,
always changing
but always remaining whole.

The sky is drowning
in itself.

Ripping itself apart
through black holes
and hoping that eating itself

will keep it full.

I have an insatiable
hunger,
yet I cannot taste
your presence
through the sickness
on my tongue...


even when you're close to me.

The sky rips through itself with ease.
Self-destruction is an art form when
you are nothing but constellations and wonder.

Black holes tear
through the fabric of the universe
and celestial hands reach through them,
scratching at God's flesh.

Stellar voices echo
through these pits of imbibe
asking it's creator
one question:
"why?"

Fistfuls of stars thrown into
the jarring teeth of inferno;
a flame that feuls more fire.

Planets are crushed
under gravity's legs,
and, like a child unsatisfied with a drawing,
the space between galaxies
crumples like paper.

Tired of being a feast for human eyes,
and being

Poked, Proded, and Penetrated by People

God's first and best creation
consumes itself whole
to satisfy
the hunger.

Tell me, Icarus,
am I the sinner
you dreamt of meeting
in heaven,

when you threw
yourself
to the sun?

I refuse to heal
from wounds that still bleed.

I owe you no more
then what you have taken.

I remind myself,
that its OK to be angry...

But for how long?

I found you in the lines between my palms,
in the way you sing that song,
in stranger's smiles,
in coffee stains.

I found you through my window blinds,
the moon shining down on us,
I found you chewing gum,
just like you always do.

I found you in jolly rancher wrappers,
in smiling seeds of watermelons.
I found you in my desire
for listening ears,
and a chest that cared.

I found you in my soul again,
picking flowers to bring back to me,
in your melodious melody,
I found you daydreaming,
I found you...
daydreaming.

I found you on the run,
from who or what I'm still unsure,
but dear,
in your run,
I will join you.

And I will find you one thousand times moreover,
just to see you
one
last
time.

I guess I just got distant.
One moment, I wanted to be as close to you as possible.
The next, I was running away from your
knife
sharp
love.

Sometimes illness
is a silent theif.

It slowly takes;
money,
time,
friends,
family,
joy,
childhood.


Illness is a silent thief,
but honey I'll fight it,
for you.

The illusion of control
ripples in front of my reflection.
The water reflects the state of the soul:
Shifting and changing
with a mere drop
causing faces
to distort.

There is a comfort in knowing
that the waters will calm
once more.

Even the illusions,
disguising reality,
are in part reality themselves,
simply because,
they
exist.

Girl you know
writing down meaningless words
will not dry your cheeks
and will not cure
your ineffable
sadness.

Innocence is held most dearly, by those who no longer have it.

When I met her I knew she was a sleepless night in the making.
She lays on a bed fit for mortals,
but the moon places a halo on her head as she sleeps.
I curse my eyes,
as acidic darkness clings to her skin
and eats at my ability to see her at peace.

Seventeen years of life
and I still have yet to realize:
that being a sucker for insomniacs is not good for me.

Sometimes to be completely free
means to be
unfathomably lonely.

As you age
you will begin to realize that justice is not possible,
but actions towards it are.
The very nature and presence of our humanity demand it.

Do not mistake my kindness for my weakness,
for those who have only braved a stormy sea before,
can approach a second one with a smile.

I hide myself under the shadow
of the lamp post I call home.
The sharp lines of light
just outside my reach,
ever flickering
in front of me.

Even the end of my cigarette,
burning ash warmth on cold lips,
snuffs out
just before the burning tobacco
reaches the darkness edge.

The memories
of late October
torment me
like trick or treaters
begging
for more candy.

Lavender kisses,
mister and misses,
their love was flowers growing on the dark side of the moon.

The ghost of her presence
is well requested
in its
absence.

I used to be someone
whose life goal
was to do something
that would impact
the world.

Soon I found solace
in disappearing as a whole
and realized
the biggest impact
I will ever make
is
leaving.

Remember whose bones
built your floorboards
before you lay a house
on their backs.

We all die alone in our minds,
it is the comfort we have
with our demons
and self
that brings satisfaction of
life in
death.

I live in these moments,
in the space between the lines,
in the space between the picture frames,
in the walls between these lies.

Within the pause of a comma,







Within the hope we must oblige,
I live perfectly and in harmony,
in this space,
in this moment
between the lines.

There's a deep state of disruption
caused by deep chords
buzzing music
so loud
that you can
feel it in your soul
your chest pounds
to beat sounds,
and liquor bottle
lullabies.

To loathe oneself
is an art,
I suppose we
are all artists
one in form or another.

I have seen the devil
with her sharp smile
and eyes that pierced
the milky way.

Her teeth ached for my skin
and I became religious:

Not out of a need for a God to save me,
but for a need for something holy
to exist.

I want to lose your memory,
in the archives of my mind,
and one day
your picture will flash across,

An old scrapbook, a picture on a phone.

and a nostalgic sense
of hidden memory
will overtake me.