Who am I?
But a collection of sounds in colors?
Of tastes in scents?
Of misery in delight?

I am nothing but the shadow
of good times
and there
lost files.

Staticed rain falls
outside window panes.
Blurred sound
of droplets hitting
greenery
is a lullaby
from mother nature.

B e a u t i f u l.

It seems what differentiates
the mad and the musician
are the bow
in which
they strum with.

Your gaze are empty hallways,
made of marble,
elegant stone swirls like
your
eyes.

Empty like your promises, but oh so beautiful.

I loved her
before
I even
met her.

I bathe in his melancholy smiles,
Shy glances like sunrays,
Warmth forever fills me.

Familiarity strums melodies
on my heart strings.
Now beating to the beat of the song,
immerse thyself,
body whole
into the music.

Silent escape,
through earbud tunnels
on places between the journey
allow for relaxation.

Now floating in calming sensations,
a touch I know by ear,
allows me comfort.

Melody,
oh sweet sweet melody
a familiarity
closing in on me.

I cannot but adore the silence
in the same way these notes hit,
anxious for its presence,
yet calm in its arrival.

The deja vu, of tunes so known
that the lyrics come out
as if we had wrote them.

Here all along,
a touch away from comfort
is always
something to be treasured.

Let flowers bloom from memories, and call them dreams.

Memories are ruthless.

Old photographs drip, overfilled
with a nostalgic sense.

Bittersweet scents of herbs
punch my nose
as I remember...

The old pages of a book,
yellowing, curling up at the edges,
a messy note,
and I wither away between the lines.

Bullets hidden in picture frames,
batter my chest.

Knives concealed in music notes,
pierce my ears,
****** sounds, but not of screams.

Soft textures lay bare on the couch,
hands intertwined in them, not voluntarily;
muscle memory.

The taste fiery in my mouth,
make my eyes water,
Eating sweets made of leftover sorrow...









I spit it out.
But memories are irresistible.









Memories are ruthless.

The stars
are just
night time
riptides.

They pull you deeper
and deeper
into the night sky,
until
you're 30 miles in,
and not looking for home.

The word love is tainted
with the stain
of your memory.

Stop milking your pain,
acting like blood is still pouring
when its been dried for years.

You hold onto the slightest of things.
You keep the stitches in even when the skin is all healed.
Let go of the pain from your body.

Well I did.

But what you failed to realize
there were broken bones
under skin.

I may have healed,
but they have reset themselves
in painful positions.

And I'm terrified of breaking them again,
even if it means
less pain
in the future.

But my mistake,
for wearing my heart on my sleeve.
I apologize for the annoyance.
I shall go back to
silence.

Do not wonder the cause of my death,
for poisoned words of yours
will be the
only
culprit.

At least
I will never have to
hear
them
again.

Bold of you
to assume
I have the capacity
to miss
your
hatred.

I wipe my face
with grubby hands
and pretend it is you
who is caring for me.

Are pure moments
Of fleeting freedom
Worth a lifetime
Of just the promise
Of just that?

Money clips the angels wings,
dollar bills used as gags,
Her intelligence a winged creature,
that in this economy, was only meant to crash.

The coins rattle like the chains
she wore around her neck.
Education was a heaven she longed to gain,
But she was only met with hells debt.

The price of freedom all too high,
the money gets you respect.
Her intelligence wilts like a flower under the sky,
in her grave, wasted, now it sits.

Lessons learned from life alone,
for her,was never enough.
She yearned for something more, a skill or craft to hone,
But "Hey kid, life's tough."

So the money now in bags,
buried in places she would never see,
a secret and more hidden rich wrath
that was all just a product of greed.

I am the moon monster.
I hide under the bags in your eyes,
Holding them at gunpoint,
Threatening them
To close.

The pillow and bed like food and water,
I deny and deprive
You of your daily intake.

A paper on the film industry under communism
Steals an hour
For every
Word
Counted.

Crave sleep with your soul,
Smell the decadent cool
Crisp
Comforting
Cocky in their perfect folding,
Sheets.

I watch them mock you,
And in their creases,
I hide a smile.

Drooping faces
Wishing you were sinking into
A bed
Rather than
Into a frown.

The clock ticks like the cogs
Working in your cranium
Late night carnivores
Mouth watering
Like melting Neptune’s blue hue.
Stripping your need
Bone-licking naked.

I hear an audio recording of my mother,
“What are you doing up so late?”
Her response echoing
In the craters of the moon.

How many late-night papers
Will I feed the beast?
One for every late night
Rogue,
Feasting on the starlight,
Making wings from the feathers
Of their pillows.

Dip your cookies into the milky way,
Sweet temptation,
You cannot get enough.

For every stressor,
We find a rebel.

Who finds a friend
In the void,
Calling
Every night
To make sure
He is ok.

Gluing their wings together with
The power of supernovas
And plasma,
“Icarus, the stars cannot hurt you here.”

I am not the moon monster to them,
I am the feathered friend.
That turns into an alarm clock
The next day.

Because for every pleasure there is pain.
And for the night there is a price.

You must make strangers with the day,
Suffering through sleepy temptations
That Mr. Smith refuses to acknowledge.

You can hear drunk wavelengths
Calling on you to answer
What the ***** of x=3 is,
Your answer
Remains undefined.

Slip stuttering conversations
To friends at lunch
Under the door
And you will be allowed to sleep
No longer.

Your grades will suffer,
Your parents,
As scornful as the sun.

But Icarus,
Do not fly near it.

Wait till I come.
Your moon monster
Will feather you, friend.
And you will be free,
Once again.

I am moonskin
hiding in
sunlies.

If you had blinked you would have missed her.
A figure made of mist,
drifting just above the water
dripping with light
and drooping with melancholy.

She had moonlit skin,
and I watched as beads of the heavens
slid down her body,
crystalized,
and dropped
into the pond below her.

I catch her eyes in surprise,
filled with wonder and stars
as she disperses across the water.

I pick up the stone left behind
and like a fool
I name it:
Moonstone.

You are an angel
yet mortal wounds stain your skin.
You reach out to me like
I am heaven,
when all I know is sin.

She tastes like honey
and Autumn leaves,
leaving me with fuller
with each breath she gives.

You stand,
cowardice,
under the title of professor.
I fear not the weight
of the textbooks
of your knowledge,
for they
are
empty.

She wore ****** like a look.

Intent engraved in future gravestones.

Dirt colored eyes of determination.

Future souls echoed cries of anguish
with the sound of gunshots.

Piercing bullets named words.

I replay our memories like broken records,
because our music just doesn't sound the same anymore.

The CD I re-watch, is covered in scratches,
so it won't replay with the same images anymore.

The same way your emotions distort
my memory of you.

Music notes as soap,
wash away the dirt
of today,

Some melodies melicious in nature,
Mangle and Mark my mind with

Old memories.

Other melodies, clean cut chords
A chorus of nostalgia
Soap hitting the bathroom floor
Never sounded so peaceful.

Lyrics like lily pads on
bass boosted lakes,
I bathe in it's divine,
drowning devilish days.



I could scrub this ***** soul clean
with the purity of sound.
I long to be cleansed.
And sweet scented soaps,
do just that.










If anything is clean, it is not what we touch, but what we hear, admiring a beauty, without its destruction.

***** of feather
fill the air,
flutter and flap,
their wings tear
the atmosphere
with expertise.
Two little birds:
Plum and Bean.

I etch my blessings
on a matchstick.
Counting thoughts
like carving wood.
I set
myself
on
fire.

Your insecurities
will rot you inside out.
And when your corpse
comes begging for forgiveness,
I shall be nailing
the last nail to the coffin.

She lays on the hill
between heaven and hell
and ponders
the valley's
name.

Veins crawled up her arms like vines,
leafy green eyes lit up the night.
Brown bark hair collided with nature.

Freckles danced like sparks from a fire across her face,
the warmth of the hearth kept nurtured in her soul.
The pale complexion was her own form of camouflage.

She was the beauty of the Earth intensified,
ten fold.
She was the sky, the heaven's birth,
and yet her beauty remained untold.

I crave serenity
when surrounded by
this noise.

Not even music is an indulgence
that blocks it out.

I do not know quite what it is,
but it lurks everywhere.

Unintelligible noise
never telling me
what
it
wants.

Your words are taken
by listening ears,
and thrown out of
unlocked mouths.

Paper holds ink promises
staining it forever,
for attentive eyes to see.

Phone's hold secrets
with cryptic passwords
until a friend strays from
the playground of your games
to the notes of your misery.

Nowhere is safe, hide all you wish,
the only place where secrets hide deep
is the mind.

Plain and simple,
keep it all in
until it escapes
or let it all out
before the world
pries in
to
see.

There is something
so ominous
about
her iridescence.

The ground is
littered with orange peels
and the stain of citrus
is in the air.

Tender and juicy is the love,
I share my slices with you

My dad started smoking again,
my mother is yelling again,
a sister so distant and in tears,

and I have to wonder
if my chaotic return of energy
was the reason for dispute
and not
the other way
around.

I left with the intent
of seeing you again.

I wish I would have known
otherwise.

He
is a story
I do not mind
reading over
and over
and over
and over
and over
again.

You owe the world
nothing
but the
spite
its given
you.

I drip into the palm of your hands
and make my home in the lines,
filling every crevice with myself
so I may always be by your side.

She was so beautiful
so graceful
so filled with wonder
that the parthenon
wept at the sight
of her.

She was born in the back alleys of bones
left as scrap thrown to the dogs
by men who chewed her raw
and picked their teeth
with the edge of her.

When sprouts formed,
and skin and flesh blanketed her existence,
and blood dripped into her veins
from body bags in dumpsters:
she began to grow anger,
and brain,
and heart,
and eyes,
and fists.

So she may see the men her tossed her,
and attain her vengeance.

You are not
what has happened to you.
You are how you react
to it.

Some plants will drown
in rain
that nourishes others.

There is satisfaction
in deep chords of pain
being strummed
on
playful
hearts.

She said "I'm so OCD."

And I searched her hands for the color of raw meat worn ****** pink,

and I searched her soul for the gripping anxiety,

and I searched her body for symmetrical bruises,

and I breathed a sigh of relief,

when I realize it was just a joke


for her.

But if there is no God,
who will I be angry at?

I feel flesh on fire
light my skin
and name me pleasure.

All hands
and waist
and thighs
and bare.

Lips not only inhaling
what the other exhales.

I still trace my hands on my collarbone
the way you did that night.

I named my pleasure after you.

Dashing, charming,
full of foolery,
She unwinds with legs of poison
sitting still on top the table,
seeping deep into my mind.

The image stains the flesh
and how I wish I could undress
the bottle of her sickly cyanide.

But taste testing pills and potions
made to drowse and **** the roses
are not nearly as sweet as implied.

So I admire from afar
oohing and awing at the bar
staring at the glass
and not taking a bite.

Devil's roll the dice,
playing a card game meant for three
I sit a cross from them
playing cards, idly.

When asked why I lay in Hell,
I pause and stare at thee,
and ask you back
"Where else can I lie?
trying to imbibe,
the devil's game
is where I want to be."

There is beauty in potential.
Fleeting moments of desires
to be freer than I am
come stronger and faster
when captivity has been for this long.
The potential to be free
will always appeal to me
more
than freedom itself.