Follow me down and I'll promise you now
that whenever and wherever, together we'll be.
Follow my lead and grateful I'll be
of this piece of us, of you and me.
Let's make a bed out in the ocean,
Let's make a mantle out of starlit skies,
Let's give kisses out in the rain,
Let's roar like thunder and whisper like lightning-
Promises, promises of together forever.
Follow me down to a city of gold,
where the sun's always bright-
and dreams last;
Come along, my love, to a wonderland land of us.
Follow me down to this winding road
where our steps are made of planets, and roads
are covered in fairy dust.
Where you and I are together, only us and nothing
more.

Move away with me,
a road trip;
never ending, always driving.
We'll make a home on the road
and watch the scenery through
rolled down windows.
Watch the world we left behind
as we continue beyond.

And, it's not running away, I promise you.
It is never closing our eyes as we make our way
forward through the blur of the life around us.

I'll watch over you as you rest through the dawn
in the backseat of my car.
Once the night descends over the horizon,
we can park on the edge of the earth and
observe as stars and city lights converge.
Undistinguishable; sky and earth a long awaited
reunion.
A metamorphosis of the divine and the sublime.

Baby, let's live our life on the roads;
let's be ahead of the time;
leaving young, living wild.

Dream of nightmares,
close your eyes to darkness.
Surrender to this madness
as you fall in to the void.

Tonight the freckled sky winked at me,
well that's what I'd like to think
but really it did to all, because the gown
the Moon wears out seduces and bewitches us.

It flirts around with many, a two-timing lover,
and though I'd like to think of me differently
I can't leave this unhealthy relationship,
thus I pretend she's mine to dream and write about.

At times I despise her,
cunning and frigid waiting for me to glance up
at her.
Always out of reach and yet she tells me she's near.
We fight,
I don't see her in the sky for days,
I suffer,
she hides behind the velvety veil of opal clouds
and all I feel are the droplets of my tears.
However, those times don't matter,
I love her unconditionally even while she goes and
lures in another.

Tonight,
her speckle lashes flutter beneath my fingertips
her twinkling lips like sparkling water
her body is chilly from a night of walking
and that's fine,
I'll warm her with my words and caresses,
because tonight belongs to me and no one other.

It couldn't get any worst.
Use to be a shadow in the corner,
a few steps behind me,
never close yet always in my line of sight.

Its darkness mimicking the
movements of my body.
Day or night,
the thing that never sleeps
it weeps in laughter as it creeps
each time closer, closer
slithering its way up my bed
as I clutch the blanket and tightly
shut my eyes in vain.

Tonight it sits by the edge of my bed
staring
staring
waiting in the darkness for me.
My heart is in my ears
a scream between my teeth,
I try to pray but remember I've forgotten,
I've got no more faith.

It's ragged raspy breath echoes in the void
of my alien room
and it just sits there
as my frustration and fright grows
a bit madder and wild each ticking second.

Morning comes
the sun raises from the crust of the earth
I've not slept a wink.
Yet, I've got to follow my day pretending
not to see the beast getting each time closer.

Remember I said it couldn't get worst?
Sorry, I lied.
Its bony,clammy hand has grasp my ankle.
Tonight will be longer,
the frigidness of its ebony, wispy hand seeps slowly
through my skin.
And once more as dawn breaks through my window
I am not relieved because its putrid hand has left
a dark imprint on my skin.

This routine continues,
I am becoming the shadow of its figure.
Its madness is dyeing me of darkness.
Scrubbing beneath the steam of the water won't make
its mark wane.

I understand now.
It is possessing me,
slowly,
bit by bit,
adhering to my body
until all I see is ebony in the mirror
and I know I've got to bleed this beast
out.

So, I take a blade and begin the process
trying to rid and purify my body
of this malign creature.
But they don't understand me!
They won't let me carve out this
madness!
I try and try but they come and stop me.
My mother, the men in white robes,
everyone is against me
letting the beast reclaim my sanity!

I'm confined within these walls,
together with this creature
but they feed me little pills
and I forget why this all began.
Sometimes, I hear my mother and a man
whisper of silly things,
they say the depression gave away to schizophrenia
but they don't really understand
because they have not looked behind
to the shadows lurking on their backs.

Imagination, it is my greatest weapon.
As well as books, because I can escape
in the pages of another universe if even
for a little while.

There is a freedom in delusion,
It is artificially flavoured and cheap-
for anyone desperate enough to buy it.
Like this, there are many more copies of the originals.
It is the promise of Love,
The dissapointment of failure,
and the bitter taste of regret.
Yes, there is a blind happiness in the act of faith;
believing in the shadows reflected on the walls of the cave.
A hard truth to accept- the lies you tell to yourself
as you go to bed and succumb to wishful dreams.
Another day wasted-another mind twisted.
The vitality of grass and the prattle of the birds ceases
love fades away, as does the vigor of the summer.
Words once fluent, now cease to forced murmurs of dispassion.
There goes the first leaf of autumn-
in the cold harshness of the creeping wind.
There is honesty and pain in recognition,
Deceit and grief at the eyes of imitation.
Yes, there is a temporal taste of forged happiness;
A comfort in the fabric of deception.

In between stolen kisses
and longing glances,
we've hidden inside the covers
of our borrowed moments.
They say the nights are for lovers
but we're playing with those letters
and their meanings.
Making puns of what is to love
and to make peace with war.
Sharing skin, never staying too long
for a goodnight kiss;
we leave before the heat of our touch
cools down,
this our caricature of a romance.

We're making love with the dark,
sharing dreams with the stars,
its all make believe, playing house,
but who can stop us from daydreaming
inside this room with some numbers.

We lay awake counting sheep until
too soon; the sun is breathing down our necks,
we've drawn the blinds and shut the door
stealing daylights hours to save one last
Goodbye.

you hold me still in the morning,
i can feel the world around us ticking
but we are untouched, unaffected
by the fleeting time around us.

Summer once more,
you dote on him and make excuses on his favour.
Saying “not guilty” when we, the judges, know
how criminally wrong.

Need some time, he argues,
as I, your friend, sigh against the obvious.
But you can't see because he curses you the culprit
while playing victim.

We both know, your eyes tell me,
through the manipulation and the love that's more like “***”
that blinds you, that binds you
he twists you once more around his finger until he gets bored
and moves onto another.

Can't you see?
The boundaries between *** and making love?

Stop begging for scraps of attention, can't you see?
Love is not constant incrimination.

It's an act,
a magic trick.
Your love, that is.

Sweet crumbling words construct my madness.
Life renewed from within the embers in the ashes,
and on the boundaries of the remaining darkness
monsters plunged in to the depths.
Hope whispered murky clear, clustering the facts.
Reality blurred from steam of visions,
long dead stars clouded in the skies.
And as I burrowed in my crystal castle,
a breeze whispered of hidden passions;
it crawled, stealthily, to my covered ears
quietly, faintly, slitheringly.
A serpent in the kingdom of the chaste
A flame in the frailty of ice.
A truth that shattered all frontiers and my words
the sensibility of ours.

Reminiscing,
like an old lady in the Autumn of life.

I've sat dining with the obscure figure of myself
one too many times.
We sit idly in the absence of sound as the
food grows cold
and my tongue goes numb.
The poison in my cup grows stronger and
my need for it makes my parched throat itch.
I mustn't take from the Devil's dinner table and
yet it is hard to abstain and give myself to
momentary pleasure.
It is a supper that has gone for far too long.
The food has belatedly gone cold and decomposed.
The beautiful illusion of the assortment of red fruits
and meat have rot over the passage of time.
The veil has been lifted and allowed me to see.
It's disgustingly beautiful in its reminder of mortality;
of beauty.

The whole in my chest grows bigger, deeper
as I stare past the deadly offering and in to
my urging shadow.
The flickers of the candles behind me dance
on the wall behind her.
A single, crimson pomegranate has been placed
on the immaculate plate in front of me.
He's arrived.
The host to greet the guest of honor.
Emerging from within the shadows the light cannot
reach.
Him, with a silk ebony robe devoid of all reflection
cascading down his figure
and his waiting for me to take a bite out
of his deadly feast.

He's patient, he's cunning in his silence;
He knows in time that I'll give in to the
hole been caved in to my heart.
The fractured darkness of me beacons Him closer
speaking tenderly as if to not startle our shared reverie
and he comes,
slowly,
taking his time to glance through the craft and art of
his fine dining.
The cold he's brought permeates the room and the
fire flickers furiously about to give way for the
obscurity of his presence.
The reflections of our shadows dance with frenzy on
the wall and I am lost within this world and the other.

A multitude of clocks scream around us.
Stretching his bony hand to me, calmly,
never rushing.
I stare confused and in the basin of his hand
there is a skull
from which protrudes a single red poppy.
Candles begin to burn out behind me.
One by one I can feel the absence of their heat
extinguish,
Just as the hand of the symphony of clocks near
the witching hour.
He remains poised over me, hindering my view of
the shadow of myself at the end of the table.
There are faint murmur underneath the hood of
the robe,
muted by the ticking from the walls.
He's tolerance promises redemption from the
torment of being forsaken.

And the clocks chime,
for a moment everything is a cacophony of echoes.

Their clamor halts.
The hands no longer mark.
Time has come to a stop.

A single candle illuminates the room.
The shadow has merged inside the darkness.
It is lost, yet I know its there.
He brings himself to my level, placing expectantly
the skull and petal beside my plate.
We glance at one another.
After an immeasurable bout of time
I stand from my seat, get the last remaining
candle and sit back down close to him.

He puts his hand around mine
and I gently blow the candle out.

Let's pretend my tears are warm and my frown is a smile,
let's pretend you never left me, even for a while.
Let's close our eyes at the radiance of vacant dreams,
let's say our lids have not opened but waited for a moment.
Let me pretend I've never been hurt, that lies are but a
shade of white;
we are but history hung from another era in a velvet world
where the victor tells the tale.
Let's pretend this song has not being sung and
that the rhythm of my melody hasn't been plagiarized by
the impostor with a pen and paper.
Let's pretend we are one, under the billow of a mind,
that the sky is the blanket of our sleep and doesn't harbor
but our bodies in the shores of the night tide.

Love, she learns at a young, is her first disappointment. Her heart is bigger than her body and her logic smaller than her brain. She falls in love fast and easily with the world around her and doesn't understand how fast she can fall apart.
She grows to give and never take but forgets to set away some things for her. People, she realizes as she stand empty handed, are as greedy as they are needy.
And now that she's empty, that she has nothing left to offer, she tucks her heart away and is left forgotten.

Last night I dreamt I committed suicide;
and it wasn't beautiful or poetic
it simply was yet another death.
I felt boneless and dizzy as I awoke on the dawn
of yet another day.
The sun shone through cracks in my window but
relief never came of not having that dream real.

Last night I forgot to sleep, I forgot to feel;
and I didn't toss around my bed but laid
as a corpse does in his casket.
I felt numb and yet somehow disappointed
of not having someone to scare away this beast.
This beast that clings to my body like a second skin,
this beast which eats away my sun,
this beast that grows with the ennui of life,
this beast which spits on raw wounds of my flesh.
It keeps me caged,keeps me inside,
belittling me and snickering just when I have managed
to get a foot out the door-
so I step back in and close it firmly shut.

Last night I prayed to anyone who would listen
and it was poignant and pathetic because
I awoke to another bright day of laughter from my peers
and I could do nothing but stare from a faraway place
with white noise stuck in my head.

The scars will be lost within the creases and wrinkles,
this sea will have been traveled and never unraveled.
love left its stain,
time wanes and ebbs the fervor of the summers.
Legs now twigs as fragile as the first,
limbs and bones become limp
soon won't be able to even lift my hand
to write to you a reminder of the marvelous passages
I've traveled.
Sentences running on in place of me whom lies in bed asleep.
Soon, in the dawn of a day my words will lose their sense
and I'll ramble about incomprehensible things.
You'll get tired of me.
I'll fade away to me, forget my face and name;
forget the pen and paper.
Too lost without a reason to be afraid.

There is too much I want to say now that I can-
but the words stumble upon each other.
all I can do is but put on a smile as I stare in to the mirror.
There is not a note of sound but for
the silent gesture of its affliction.

Dream of me, if even a little.
A nightmare perhaps
so that I may wake you in the
eve of night-
sweat pouring, throat hoarse
from wailing.
Have a good night sleep, may
the siren's song drown you into
a fitful slumber.
But just remember, my sweet dove,
thoughts of guilt will haunt you
wherever you slip.

i want to fall into love slowly,
for it to walk my pace -hand in hand-
i want love to wait for me, patiently;
to hold me when i stumble, tenderly,
to catch me as i fall.
for love to never crumble
even when all i do is tumble.

i want to.

I want to dance to Frank Sinatra's tunes
this cold time of the year.
With our feet bare on the kitchen tiles,
with a handful of each other and our heads
reclining for support on our shoulders.
I want to stay there until the early hours of the next day
with a soft silence and cozy smile;
just us muting the world for this little while.

When we soon run out of music, we'll simply sway
like an anchored boat on a breezy day
and all I'll need will be the steady beat of your heart
because to me you are a mellow melody always
and throughout the disarray of my life.

Just for this night let's sway in each others embrace;
let's dance the frigid winter nights away.

I have a flighty heart and a feisty mouth;
Fall in love too often and fall apart too fast.

People do much damage.
I guess I'd say,
                           you should go.
That's probably the best we can do.

It is a priviledge to be loved by a poet,
to be embraced by the meter and the rhyme
and caressed by soft metaphors and sharp alliterations.
To be painted a universe with words and run-on sentences
that converge in a single thought expressed with
similes and repetitions of a single symbol.
It is an honor to be loved by a poet,
to be celebrated with odes, mourned with elegys
and elevated to a pedestal by a canticle.
It is a marvel to be loved by a poet,
to be the muse of long, weary nights of concentration
and be part of passionate lines in dramatic monologues
as each is recited with the intonation of rising ardour.
To be submerged in sizzling appreciation of one's quirks
and virtue.
To be loved and to love.
To provoke an inspiration and a sigh of ephemeral longing
and bring about a remedy to the mourning.
It is a misery and joy to be loved and be of unrequited
provocative inspiration to the riveting mind of a lone
and solitary poet.

Not long ago, I dreamed I was swimming in the most beautiful water I have ever seen. It was a crystalline, pastel tangerine which was the product of the reflecting sun. It was too clear that it felt like air. I was underneath, swimming in its deepness and yet almost teasing the surface with the underwater ripples of my moving legs and hands.
There were iridescent green trees protruding from the side of the pool rooted barely to the edges of the patches of earth at the sides. Almost glowing from within with a light of their own. They were big and its leaves were plentiful. Evergreen, full of richness and budding inside this water world.
I felt content. At one point I was swimming with my head towards the surface but I was still submerged and the caramel rays of the sun caressed my body and filled me with euphoria.
I was floating underneath further and further mesmerized by the beauty and serenity.
I saw myself from somewhere above as I enjoyed the sensation of the embrace of the water and swam immersed in mirth.
It felt like swimming in my aspirations and inspirations. The softer side of imagination.

"It's alright, you can cry?" She looks listlessly at her reflected shadow. There's nothing on her mind, every cloud of thought has left the gray skies of it. She feels like a desert, barren and almost lifeless. If she could cry she'd cry the oceans in to existence and drown the earth in her sorrow.
But  she cannot. That's the real tragedy. Nothing disturbs her. All she can do is stand there not quite sure how to express the endless grief that leaves her like a carcass. A decomposing body without a soul, without the breath and sentiments of life.
"You can cry." She repeats to the rippling water in the lake. Her distorted, ever moving mirror where she does not quite recognize herself in. It's impassive in its tranquility.
If she were a song she'd be a broken melody in a dusty music box. Forgotten and replaced.
You can cry, she remind herself in the middle of a night as darkness hangs upon the sky. As it clings to her like Death weighs on her shoulders and violates her through the pores of her dry skin.

Of course, she never does.

She drifts in the open abyss of a tempestuous ocean waiting for oblivion.
She drifts,
                                   she drifts,
                                                                         she drifts...

No dreams.
No sinking feeling of demise.
Waiting for the lighthouse in the distance but all is bathed in the shadows.
There's not consolation of sandy shores somewhere on the distance.

Cry, she begs herself laying on her bed ready to succumb to sleep. Closes her eyes and opens them to shadows. Obscure and never ending. The darkness is ubiquitous, the only God that has not yet forsaken her.
She walks a few miles in the flatness of the dark land but there is no point to her direction for all is desertion. So, she stands in the lightness of the black.
Sometimes, her young self hides behind her back, wearing white and glancing ahead. She looks back at herself and wonders what the she can see. Her dress and hair fluttering gently by an invisible breeze, countenance straight and strong, never looking at what should be in front. After, she walks barefoot in to the darkness and disappear as by enchantment.

You can cry.
                                    you
                                                  can
                                    cry

But, in the darkness of her mind and her room
The tears don't fall
And her affliction is obscured
darkness never seemed so profound

In my mind, I break things.
I throw picture frames at walls
shatter the vase of wilting flowers
shove books out of their cases
rip apart their pages,
tear away their seams until they are back
to an incoherent soup of letters
and their well meaning themes and phrases
have become but what my life is,
poignant and pathetic.

There is nothing, no reaction.
I wreck havoc in my head
while I give a picture of composure
as you lecture me on how to live my life
when yours is nothing but in shambles.

In my mind,
I run away, take a train and live
to see brighter days.

It's one of those days,
where I remind myself not to let go yet.
But one of these days,
I'm walking out in to the sea and all you'll see
are the specks of gleaming water in the breeze.

What do you want?

I was not born in to this world
to fix your mistakes.
I am not your second chance and hope.
I am me;
and me makes mistakes worth the pain
worth the chat and the laughter.

I am not you and
you are not certainly me.

I won't, however, make your mistakes.

I'll read to my child and tell them it's okay
to fall out of line
to fall out of order
to drown in the pragmatic questions
and breathe the pathological questions.

I'll tell them I love them
that they are not me
and I'm not certainly them.
That asking is knowing
and knowing is listening.
That been wrong is a matter of vocalization
and right is just a one route suicide nation.

I'll tell them right
without doing them wrong.
Take your pick
anything goes.

I want me.
Me might be wrong.

water seeped through invisible cracks on the ceiling,
sprung from tiles of the floor and
trickled down in serpentine paths from the walls.
I go out that day but no one notices.
It's gradual and slow, I try to sleep it off
but when I wake the next morning I am
waist deep inside the water.
I can only feel the chill of it, the ripples as I move
around attempting to ignore it.
It feels like air.
I'm too afraid to go out and seem different to people
around me.

Days pass, I wonder if I'm hallucinating,
what's wrong with me? perches in my head.

I spent all day attempting to identify the source;
under the bed, in the cracks of my mirror,
inside my pillow but nothing.
I sit in the middle of my living room,
in the middle of the flood,
in the middle of the night,
slowly being submerge in this confusion.

I'm drowning underneath this weight as
people walk on by unaffected by this change.
I've become numb,
sleep and wake to this abysmal blue.
There's no point in anything I do.
It's insidious, entering my dreams as I
prematurely awake to another day under the water.

Let's make love with the stars,
lay **** on sandy shorelines of
a midnight escape.
Let's be young again, care about nothing.
Dance around the fire of the dreams we burned
of the dreams we shared
of the dreams we believed
of the life we dreamt of.
Sing the night away, burn the pain and the regret
leave the worry at the door and turn towards our silhoutte.

Let's be young again,
build castles from the ashes of those dreams
tell the world we won't care if it ceases to exists
tell ourselves we'll remain constant in the debris
of the collapsing world around us.
Take another gulp of life
and hold the weight of the world inside this
smoke filled lungs.

Let's be us,
just this once more;
Young and breathless
but never hopeless.

Let me tell you why i cound't love him,
when all he thought of me was idealized
like some fairy in a fairytale ready to
aid him on his quest on his story.
How he loved my dyed hair or how i never
seemed to settle on a color
but not because i was fickle  and adventurous
but because color fades naturally.
Let me tell you how he treated me like some
discovery, a treasure for greedy pirates
and suddenly i wans't even a person,
i was his involuntary manic pixie dream girl;
a level in a game, a mage to give him answers
when i didn't even understood the questions.
How i was somehow supposed to teach him
life and love when its just me being me,
a girl attempting to live her life and every flaw
suddenly glitter covered and gold encrusted;
my anxiety reduced to a quirk and my depression
just so edgy.
Let me tell you that I couldn't love a boy,
-selfcentered and presumptious-
when all he saw in me was a character and not
a partner.

A boy who never even knew me but pretended.

Dear past me,
I found a suggestion to write to our future self.
And, after much thought and deliberation, I found myself unable to thinks of us further than today.
Although, the past you and present me converge today, we both understand, that even now, our future is uncertain. And, it's all down to present me.

So, dear possible future,
there's a few things I know:

I know the sky is blue; sometimes.
The day before today was yesterday and after will be tomorrow. But yesterday is now certain. Written down on a rock. It is now a fixed point of life.
But tomorrow may not come. The sun not rise nor the moon fall.

Tomorrow is the great perhaps.
Sleeping; waiting to be awaken.
We are Schrodinger's cat. Both alive and dead inside the box of tomorrow.

That even if I can't see myself further than today;
here's to the things written and unwritten,
to the you before and the me after.
Here's to the great perhaps and maybe of tomorrow,
To the us who know,
and the uncertainty of now.
That to whatever yesterday decided,
tomorrow might forgive us.
Here's to the fine line between the past and future,
that it might meet our present and if not-
that it will remember us even if just today.

Here's to us,
anywhere in time.

Hope was selling
dreams to the hermits
on the street.
Empty stars filled the carts
paying a price that was too
high.
In debt they left
and came back broke with
butterflies in their dusty pockets
and moon kissed smiles upon their frowns.

Aspiring the rocky dust of crushed stars,
feeling high, feeling new
shooting up, falling down-
A shower of meteors lighting up across the horizon.
Crashing the earth's crust,
addicts for another fix.

Dreamers stealing the stars,
tasting paradise for a little while.

I need the money
but I am not a slave to a master.
In this capitalist world were thriving
needs the illusion of paper worth,
were the jungle has segregated itself
between social life or work,
living or spending
where we follow the bell and expect
a lunch break,
where paying for a life I had no say in
is the law
and we are seen as robots to a mechanism.

A working class in which I am but a replaceable
machine gone awry over years of misuse
and
my life is compiled over minimum wage for
paychecks
where times is anything but gold.
A society in which working for retirement is
somehow starting early,
where youth is wasted and rusted by gears of a watch.

Call me a starving artist because-
the art of my life is but the aesthetics of my mind,
because I won't invest my time for the ownership of your profit,
because living is not experiencing the wonders of
a world in where success is equivalent to currency.

Call me human because I am,
free and spending my life but not to mere pennies of your system.

Kiss me moonstruck
in nightly shores of
opalescent cobalt tides.

There is man in the first floor of the building,
we lend him our eyes because he'd got no use for our ears.
He tells life with vivid motions, stories through fingers and expressions;
he's got a joy for life and it's apparent from his actions.
He puts me to shame as I try to convey life with all this intricate words;
I say meretricious, he waves his hand away
I say despondent, he shakes his head in dismay
I say exuberance, but all he has to do is smile.

There's a savant in the first floor of the building.
He's merry and jolly,
reminding everyone with a gentle smile that
sometimes words are not enough, reminding us that
although the pen is mightier than the sword
actions speak louder than words.

I wish I could alleviate your fears,
that my words were the medicine to your problems.
I wish money was no big deal, because then
you'd be free of having to worry about the bills.
I wish I found a hope for Death, for leaving
and never once more dreaming,
that I could give you-replace the distress buried
like a maggot eating all illusions and hope for
better days- the embers of a promised fire.
I wish I was a better daughter
and though I try my hardest
It is never just enough to eliminate your tears
to the injustice life has shoved upon you.
If anyone deserves all things well,
it is you my caring Mother and for that I resent
this deprecating world.

You won't look at me anymore.
It hurts that you refuse to glance my way.
Your warmth, a running tap, it leaks and has
been drained at long last.
There is no future,
today has been lost among the dust and vases
of flowers that forlornly rest and adorn this
empty house.
Everyone offers me apologies as though it
is their fault you've gone.

Now I've got the past to look into.
Daydreams of memories playback
behind the eyelids I can no longer
bring to open.
The bed is long cold and the vacancy
you left cannot be filled and yet I still
lay beside the hole you've carved.
Touch my fingertips to the emptiness
as I trace a specter of a silhouette among
the darkness that the light and shadows
cast over your pillow.  
I wish to sink in to it,
lay my weary head to rest.

You. I dream of you often.
We run in a valley in which stars grow
from the soil,
catch the feathery fluff of petal showers,
flowerbeds are made of sugar,
we swim in ponds of honey
and forever watch the marmalade dawn in
this timeless space of ours.
The night never arrives.
I wake bitterly with tears streaming down,
a waterfall.

Coffee does not taste the same at morning.
My cup sits silently and bleak
it goes cold and untouched.

Every day drags , it's impossible.

More often than not I think of that day,
as I sat in front of you in a crowded room
and you refused to open your eyes and see me.
Even if for one last time.
It was quiet, my mind was tired.
This silly suit I wore now I'll use to go and see you.

Make room for me in your casket,
I'll come and meet you soon.

Everything shatters to the floor,
the clock stops its silent clicking.
Nothing seems to have changed,
yet all has rearranged.
As my life crumbles to pieces,
the choices become scarce.
This demention, this futility of the sort,
asphixiates me, scrapes agaisnt my throat.
Escape, I need to seek one;
an easy "out of here" from this cage.
Take one pill, another one shortly follows;
The alcohol flushes it down,
And, just to make sure,
Grab the friendly blade of the knife and
pierce the snakes running down my arm.
Now, now I am free.
Free forever from the torment of this miserable life.
Nothing chains me down,
my wings are free from harm.
I don't leave this place because I want to die;
I leave because I don't want to live in this purgatory.
Pity those who stay behind,
destroying each other bit by bit.
Far worst from what I have just done.

Your body is a canvas,
but the tongue of a blade should never be your brush,
blood should never be your palette
and bitter tears should never sting your skin.
Your body is a canvas,
touched by the brush of a petal,
painted by the tints of rosy joy and yellow sun,
your eyes should reflect the starry night
and the silver of a moonlit sky.
Your body is an altar,
it should never be desecrated by skeptics,
it should never be sculpted with bruises
and stained by the possession of manipulating demons.
Your body is an altar,
celebrated by passion fueled prayers,
adorned with ornaments of kisses,
and cleansed by candid disciples.
You are priceless and worth every struggle,
so don't let anyone deceive you in an opinion
based solely on their contorted perception
of untruthful quantification of our current
media,
because you are a sculpture in the Louvre
and a masterpiece is not worth the touch
of a violator.

I'm going to drown at the profundity of the blades-
silvery and glistening, pale and stale against my skin-
flailing  through discarded, waves of shards of thoughts of you.
I down the beer like the arid earth yearns for the rains,
fast and breathless; a mind parched, a thirst quenched.
Tomorrow will bring the sunshine of another day,
while I am here-in the dark-much intoxicated to fully care.

Dark thoughts perch lightly above
scrawny limbs,
while underneath my feet touch
the dismal comfort of phantasmagoric pastures.

and there's a muzzle on my mouth
and a noose around my neck
tightening, gripping
I find morbid comfort in it's baleful
embrace.

The crows don't sing but their feet
sting my twigs
and they stare
and they whisper.

Clocks melt away but the numbers
remain etched in to my skin.
the muted rhythm,
I begin to lose my sanity.

The colors run down my skin
down the drain
someone's poured water
unto my charcoal world.

isolation is now familiar
my heart is upside down.
The dark thoughts perch
in the fragile balance of my mind
will snap
and I'll become part of a past.

Believe me, I am breaking
under the pressure of life
and the static routine of
a schedule.
Believe me, if this time,
because in the ebullition
of my intoxication;
a mind wringing in the brink
of dislocation will surrender
to the edge of a ledge.
Believe me, I beg you,
before my feet carry on
wayward and the neurons
press a red button on my
self's destruction.
Just look at me, for once!
Notice the way red snakes have
scarred my shaking arms,
the way caustic tears scorch my pale
cheeks and wails turn inward;
a shrieking sorrow.
Please, understand me and save
my mind on a ledge.

Why I shouldn't do it
is a list at the very front of my mind.
It is comprised by  the mundane and insipid.
Little bullets with bold letters engraved and
edited every other day that
I didn't do it.

Why I want to do it
is a brief italicized and underlined word;
Liberation.

Why I shouldn't do it
is a desperate attempt at clinging
to each single facet of my prolonging days.
There are things like
-I have not read enough
-I have not seen enough
-I have not written it all
but Why I Want To Do It has added
neon lettering to that trifling word
and I am captivated by the prospect and
beauty of the light in the obscurity of my mind.

Why I'm making a list
is my hope that the amount of excuses
will surpass the weight of that word
and it will someday be crushed by the
pressure of
Why I didn't do it.

Remember when we were
but we never happened?
Me neither.

The time I held the sun
and you kissed the moon,
when you named a star by my name
and I cried because we changed.
When you had your feet planted
in the earth,
while my head was high above the clouds.

Remember when I wrote your name
on the margin of my notebook?
the ink has faded from the page,
washed by the tick and tock of rain
by the drip and drop of the clock.

The time we held someone else's hand,
we kissed stranger's lips
to drown the taste of ours,
when your name was at the tip of my tongue
and I spit the words when I brushed my teeth;
down the sink they went.
When you saw and said nothing
while I said and stopped looking.

Remember when we never were
but we happened?
Let's forget.

Today is the day I'll dance to my contempt,
toast to the solitude drenched in midnight ocean
and plead with Time for just another hour.
Today I'll suffocate within the swaying sea of bodies
on a dance floor,
become another amongst the crowd and vanish in
the light.
Today I'll fancy the luscious nectar of the flowers,
not under the beaming sun but
under the snickering moon.
I am a daughter of the night,
a martyr of my mind and a
satyr of forbidden pleasure.
Today is the day I'll savor the charades of the dark.