My girl is drenched in sunlight
Every step she takes
She sets the hollow ground ablaze
Her hair is spun from silkworms fingertips
She is stained glass shot through with moonbeams

My girl is sewn in neon
Stitched with the violent nighttime glow
That renders shadows as indigo ink
Illustrates them so
In ways the quiet amber streetlights
Envy so

When she dies
I am certain that
My girl’s embers will burn dove white
In the twilight’s velvet sky
And outshine every other winking ember
As her smile did so in life

If this was the end, for you,
for me, for the creation, how
would we be judged?
As the children we once were, perhaps,
innocence and glee.
But still, would the sun
not fall onto us?

I could be the messenger.
I could tell the tale
of destruction of humankind,
but would it be for nay?
Would it be better,
to die,
in the darkness?

Die as heroes, die as villains,
do we truly care
which way we go?
If the rain of fire,
would still come down?
If we'd still
soil the ground,
with out bodies?

So I say, take me,
teach me the ways,
of living while I have the day.
I do not care for
heaven nor hell.
For I'll still be,
just dead,

when the red sun cries.

I painted you.
With trembling, amateur precision,
I suffered each line on your face.

Each fleck of sun,
Your candid smile,
Your immediate beauty in the foreground
Of an exceptional ocean.

Stumbling blindly through the days,
Fumbling for the switch
In a punch-drunk, love-sick afternoon.

Apart from you,
Stripped, exposed,
Laid prone on the gurney
With my skull in a vice
And a fist to my stomach.

I can barely stand because of you.

I painted you this afternoon
So I could toil in your gaze.
Pray I am an interesting splatter,
A noticeable blight;
A happy accident on your page.

I drowned myself in a bottle of *****
so I could feel, or not to feel
There are eleven cigarette butts in the trash
so now my room reeks like smoke
It's still better than the smell of blood
Though my brother wasn't too happy
that I stole all his liquor,
he still thinks that the stains in my sheets
are better than the deep red ever was
Even if they're *****

contradiction
followed by
contradiction
with

u n u s u a l
spacing

endless metaphor
describing pain
and injustice

wash
rinse
repeat

you're a poet, harry

It's here, is it not? It came back like it said.
I felt it knocking, I felt it pounding,
on the doors, on the windows, everywhere.
I didn't let it in, how is it here?
There has to be a crack on the wall,
It slithered through like a snake,
a snake it is, I say.

Have you felt it yet, have you?
You can't see it, can you?
I don't think it has a shape, it's something else.
It can speak though, and it's got claws,
it used to scratch me all the time,
that's how I got these bleeding scars, see?
It spoke to me.

I have a riddle for you, can you figure it out?
It's got no mouth, it's got no voice, but it can speak
It can make you forget, it can speed up time.
It can cloud your sight, it can make you blind.
It will sleep by your side, and it'll follow you around.
I gave you a riddle, can you figure it out?
I'm sure you can, you can feel it too, can't you?