The shadows on my walls at night
with their inky flowy forms
create words from lack of light
and their presence, I do mourn.

For the sun is an ugly thing
when you are a shadow, to be scorned.
My window filled with magic
the shadows; nevermore

And the galaxies collided,
As a punch landed,
The supernova of emotions
An incredible tribute to the destruction.

A bruise of a galaxy forms on her hip,
Starry night encompasses sweet lullabies
Only she can hear
The comforting sound of the void
Calling her name.

Her soul dripping in moonlight,
The craters of her skin,
From meteorites that landed there.
She does not adore the crevices
Her rock body provides her.

The planets align
For the perfect time
To run away again.

A situation she wants but no longer controls,
There is fleeting and there is feeling
And whichever one she is,
She assures herself its normal.

Her black hole
Has become her universe
Her normal.
A comforting cloud of dust whirls so fast
Her head spins with its ideas.

She is the universe,
The one with the stardust soul
Longing for its supernova
Once more.

She's spilling
forbidden wine
on pieces of gauze
taped to a thigh.
Butcher herself,
like meat on a platter
for bite sized brains
to digest.

She is stainless steel teeth,
she is a strained voice,
she is a fighter,
tired,
but resilient
and giving it
her
all.

When you realize
all love is
is a shelter
from a storm,
you will understand
why I like the rain
so much.

She was crisp in Autumn's wind.
Definite lines of beauty
set in stone,
on pavements filled
with leaves.

Her skin is cinnamon sprinkled,
and her oh just as punchy.

She was scented with spice,
her presence never a shadow
or mango-mangled mixture.
It was definite,
it was there.

She was there.

My mother keeps flowers in shot glasses,
feeding off the *****.

Drunkenly, they sway in the breeze that passes by.
Blushing petals encompass good times.

When you learn
that we are nothing more
than silk wrapped bone
and mortality,
then peace will flood you
and the gates to existence
will open.

My sins may outweigh yours,
but they are sins,
all the same.

100 minutes in the sky,
times flies by,

you are a temptation,
I let subside.

Being near you,
is like flying high.


So high...


The bedroom with you,
is like 100 minutes



in the sky.

The familiarity of tiredness,
blur fuzzy lines at the edge of my vision,
eyes shutting down
like a computer that's run out of battery,

unexpectedly.

Limbs fall loosely leaves to the bed
and crumple into a pile
of the scraps of a human.

Whatever life eats and wastes,
the leftovers always end up
sitting on the bed,

sleeping now, refusing to
embrace the cold refrigeration
of the night.

The stars eat up her light once more.

An exhale stains the sky
as ash and ambiance
fall from her lips.

She is permeating the night air
with the aroma of tobacco
and a great story to tell.

I think I found myself again
but I don't know
whether or not
I missed her soapy scents.

She is soil,
earth and pure.
I run her through my hands
and she falls
through my fingers.

Some days there will be nobody.
Nobody to love,
nobody to care,
but it is in the black hole of nothingness,
in which we pull our strength from most.

Purity is an obsession
until we remember
mixed drinks
exist.

There are 1,000 sorrows
between the front gate
and the back door.

They each have a name,
the same way
each fiber of a carpet
and each grain in wood
have a purpose.

I introduce myself to them
and introduce them
to their matching
1,000 joys

and watch
as the world
is born

Hush tones now full grown,
she spoke louder than the hatred of her voice.
But ****,
she said it.
And ****,

She was good.

I break dawn
with a sledgehammer,
splintering the night
and scattering the stars,

and with hands made of stains,
I spend my days
piecing it back together.

One day I hope
he festers and perishes
as badly as
he treated
me.

Your skin is stained glass,
all different colors.
Where one vibrant red ends,
a shining yellow begins.

You are not broken, shattered on the floor,
but rather,
separate pieces of stained glass,
set separate to behold;

apart they are meaningless beauty,
together they are fruitful art.

A stained glass soul,
where art blooms at the color of her skin,
and realities blinding light
becomes diluted imagery
once more.

Your love cuts like stained glass;
oh so beautifully
painful.

Angel's wear
sinner's blood
in veins
that are
not
theirs.

By the window she wavers,
elegance and grace
unfolding from the movements of her gloved hands.

Animated red lips
move with skill
as she tells a tale
that would make sailors blush.

Eye's flashing and dashing
like the lighthouse
in the middle of a storm.

A whirlwind of blonde hair
who had fought with the wind
sits awry on her head.

I watch as her story unravels,
and the air around her buzzes
with her electric voice.

I make the mistake
of escaping with her wallet,
and am left to wonder,
how her story ends.

I drink down the sunset
like it is tea,
a warm invitation
calling to me.

I inhale the sharp scents
of the orange of the sky.
Release a will,
a want to cry.

Beauty at its finest,
refined into purity,
I reach out like a child again,
all I want right now
to enjoy.

I watch fiery red,
a beautiful bloodbath
encasing the atmosphere.

Purple's and pinks
like sugar filled fruit gushers.

Ah yes,
the sunset,
relaxing,










drink it down tonight.

Nostalgia is written in
the paragraphs of a sunset.
Between lemonade colored memories
is the red hot sand of the beach.
Clouds float by,
just like good old times.

I see her when I walk across the street,
staring at her
in stranger's faces,
never quiet ever
having her same
honey colored eyes.

I watch him as I digress,
a new memory being formed in the moment,
laughter between food,
a lifetime of memories
is eaten in one
bite.

His lips don't taste the same as before,
no,
this time around,
it's sweeter.

This time around I do not need to savor every morsel
this time around,
I get to eat him whole.

I treasure those eyes,
like marbles in my pocket,
I hold them deep in the crevice
of my mind's hand.

Night slips on the shadow's horizon,
light no longer a blanket,
and for a moment,
the cold feels inviting.
loneliness a sin or the sinner?

God knows.

All I know,
is that nostalgia
is written
in the
paragraphs
of
a
sunset,




or if you're a poet, the stanza's of night.

I fear not the hands that hit me,
but the eyes that judge me so.

I fear not the tongues affliction,
as those come and go.

I fear not the stranger's glance,
but the words in their vision.

I fear not that which will **** me,
I fear survival of the fittest.

The wolves howl
with grief
and I feel among them;
just a wild animal
with a fear to survive.

I hope freedom's gates
taste sweeter
when captivity
has been
this
long.

Depth requires straightforwardness.
Do not go looking in the sea,
putting meaning to every grain of salt
and sand you lay your hands on,
as you will focus so much on detail,
you will forget,
that oxygen is running low,
and you are still
near
the
surface.

I fully believe in the butterfly effect.
Because when I see you,
I know somewhere else in the world,
the universe must balance out
your lovliness.

When you laugh,
I feel the breeze blow on a spring feild
and see a child
seeing the sunset for the first time.

When you smile,
Orange trees bloom
with white colored flowers
and a scent so sweet
the bees cannot resist it.

And when you look at me
with the face of an angel
and the emotion of a God,
I cannot help but see
your beauty
in everything.

I sit at the edge of the world,
as water falls from the ocean
into the abyss that is the sky
and floats past the stars.

Where I cling to handfuls of dirt
and grass, and the rocks that cling too,
so I do not fly up
and drown in the universe above
and below me.

I hold the girl
I want to be
Trapped between
Lines
Of poetry.

And when you slip right through my fingers
and crash onto the floor,
a thousand scattered eyelashes
stare back at me.
I will stare at my hands
and blame them,
not you.

I think divorce papers taste like the ash of a cigarette falling from his lips when he told her the news.

Like whiskey burning fiery hot as it slides down the back of your throat,

with bitter sweet tears pooling in with umami ink, the saltiness hitting the tongue like the papers to the floor, a weeping widow who does not suffer from a death but an absence.

I think divorce papers cut up throats like the edge of a chip, swallowing the news over and over again does not seem to make it go down any easier.

I think divorce papers digest like a cheap meal, the kind that you know will give you trouble, but also know is better for you in the end.

Bodies like cigarettes
with cherry red kisses
are a summer time treat
we all await for.

The cold air hits my lungs,
as the animal in my body
takes ragged breaths
exhaling
vapor and fear
inhaling
a familiar stench.

The night smells like metal,
with the sun now eroding
the starry sky.

There is no time to think of how I got here.
A corroding metal bar swinging in the air
just missing
my head.

Will you let
your third eye
blind
you?

I woke up
To the thirst
Of moonlight.

Begging her essence

To quench my desires.

I'm finding guilt
underneath the carpet's
edges
as I dust them there.

Deal with it later,

pushing away emotions like meals,
promising myself to finish them off
but ending up throwing the scraps
of whats left of me
to the dogs.

And that's all I am aren't I?

Pieces of meat to be flung at the hungry
take parts of my soul like parting gifts
thoughts like unwelcomed house guests.

But who am I to stand on this ground
and claim it to be my own?

I belong to those who control me,
making statements
"Skirt too short"
"Hair unkempt"
"Too big"

With every bitter bite
in their sentences
a chain is added
to my collar.

Make me obey,
simply because if I was too free,
what fear would it cause you?

Passion or anger I know not the difference anymore.
I pick up pieces of shattered glass
And set them aside
like a puzzle
not worth putting together.

I don't know who I'm angry at anymore.
Myself for not dealing with these feelings earlier,
or the bitter call to obedience I answer?

Tame me once more,
and my bite will not go away,
but simply be domesticated.

And with those thoughts I leave you,
dare to cross me again,
and I will not wear your collar,
with prideful ambition
as I once did.

I really miss her,
the woman who knew
her place:
on top of the throne.

You are most angelic when your touch is far away from me.

You are faced with two roads.

One leads to eternal peace,
a longing,
a need,
from the chaos of your life,
it is a constant promise
as steady as the sun
and the moon.

One leads to adventure,
excitement jumping off
the edge of a bridge,
mountains tilting their snow caps
in your respect,
danger is a wide grinning gate
yet
it is so tempting.

Given the choice:
Which would you choose?

To go against the institution
one was raised in
takes bravery
that is unbeknownst
to man.

I pray for forgiveness
I know I do not deserve
but forget
that I have already been
forgiven

My hands grip the smoke in the air
circling my fingers as though to tease me.
The endless form of vapor shapeshifts
passing through my palm,
as though my existence was a distant laughter
that does not echo
but fades away.

She smelled like cigarette smoke
and *****
and Oh,
how I wished to be
the ash or the bottle
that fell
from
her
lips.

I wish I had the strength
to be
vulnerable.

There is no glory
in war.
Your heroes are forever
stained with the sound
of whizzing bullets
and spilled guts.
The soil shall no longer produce
fruit nor anything sweet.
The ground was watered with blood and death.

There is no more life in it.

Another night alone,
and I am trying to scrub off
the bruises
with running tap water
and soap.
I scrub until the skin is raw,
and make a note,
to keep my hands out of sight;
others and my own.
I've been stained
with wounds
that cannot be
washed away.

I am sorry.

I am but a stain;
**** of the earth,
I am nothing more than
a mistake,
a fallen drink
onto carpet,
destined to be washed away
with hard working hands
scrubbing clean.

I have become worthless
in my own eyes once more,
and wish to hate myself
out of existence again.

I do not attack the hand that strikes
me with cloth,
for I am just a stain...
waiting to be
washed
away.