He told me that there used to be a “spark” he never saw in me anymore looking at me with his dark brown eyes. And when he tried to bring that spark, it was never to show the flame that came after it, but the darkness that surrounded it. As he was bringing that spark in me again, lighting me on fire without realizing it, flames in the reflection of his eyes, trying to change me, trying to bring the old me back, what he never realized was that the flame was him, and that flames disappear too.

Im surrounded by empty cigarette packs
       and you think that you're a poet
I drink because its the only way I know how
To deal with this reality
       and you think that you're a poet


I'll be dead-broke and dying
No hope left
Still ******* words that mean nothing
And have hope
Without the slightest clue as to why
God
Or just man would understand
that there is a happy end
When there isn't

I'll have hope
Even after I lose and the implode
and you think that you're a poet

How am I alive?

i want to leave this town
where everyone is intertwined
and i feel unwanted
where i see the faces
of the people who hurt me everyday
i want to pack my things
and go someplace
where nobody knows my name.
i want to tell my mom how i feel
but i don't want to scare her.
i know it was ******* her
when she saw how the world had hurt me
and how i hurt me
i did not intend to hurt her
i love her
i want to get better so she can be happy
i don't want to worry her.
i wish
people would not be so rude
to me
without reason.
i am tired
of fighting
i am tired
of seeing them and feeling powerless
i am tired
of how weak i feel.

Sometimes, you just know
And you don't want it confirmed.

feelings
like lizards

like she-wolves
with their eyes of ember
in the dark

motion arrested
waiting for the mind to reach
its hypnotic body

**Ioana Ieronim

If loving you is a sin,
Then consider me the *Devil

Don't worry, darling
the ocean will be only a
memory, one day,

the wild waves a footnote
in the story of your
meandering life

we will meet occasionally,
drinking espressos in
the heart of London

imagining we are somewhere
(anywhere) else

but eventually, you will
forget me, and I will

not shake my limbs
into yours, worrying
about breaking the

skin. We are not
endless and forever
is now

Spray with Hi Def paint.
Bullet holes tagging Main Streets'
Loud walls *remember.