To my first follower,
for taking the courage to click on the tab.
To my first like,
for taking precious moments reading my design.
To the ones who followed after,
for taking notice of my mind in pixelated patterns.
To all who shall come after,
I won't ignore the precious deed.

Thank you for the ones who stayed
as well as those who could not take any more of this ****.
I know I am depressing, banal and even dull at times but
for each and everyone of you who thinks I am worth a heart;
I could not have asked for a better companion who shares
this lovely craft.

Let's continue awhile longer,
reading and writing
listening and trying
and since this is getting a bit tacky I'll end it here
remind all of you that I appreciate that seemingly simple click.

And the tears are shining light,
while sun is high and bright
but I can't help and wonder;
when love had turned to blunder.
And as the moon is close and cold,
the dreams begin to shrivel;
they scurry to the pillow
as a worm does in a meadow.
And the tears are gone and past,
though the pain remains at last;
in the corner of my mind
a misery well defined.
But, what of the words of pride-
You spoke of me so many times?
Buried with the worm
my little dreams are gone.

You're not my “something real”,
not my “wish upon a star”.
Even as you lay here with me
my mind complains and my heart
disdains.
You are not my drug nor the White Rabbit
from such tales.
Even now, as your lips touch mine
the breathing of my brains holds static.
You warm hands exploring every inch of
my **** body, however, those tell a different
tale.
Every hot spot on my flesh you slightly caress
makes my nerves erratic.
Beaconing to me with luscious promises
the only way you can stir my breath.
See?
Just a hobby, only a pastime.
All we seek based on carnal sin.
You are not my treasure, nor am I yours-
and yet we choose to linger entangled within
these sheets.
We seek the comfort of compassionate hands,
of accepting lips, God we are insane.
All we come to find between us is but a
way to **** the void of Time in our shriveled
little hearts.

I never cry in front of people anymore.
But when I did it was sonorous and wailing
clinging for support, gasping for more air.
And after the storm had passed and the sea was bright
there was nothing but the quiet and the joy.
I'd drained the worst in to a handkerchief and dumped it
in the bin.

Now, years have passed and life has taught me
one too many tales.
I now know to weep softly, softly in despair
as the scalding water of the shower hides
tears and muffles sounds.
Because those I thought cared lied and went away.

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.

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.

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.

Sometimes, I don't know,
whether I move to or fro.

The curtain of night descend upon the sky. It is aphonic, psychotic and dark.
Perpetually calling for daylight, but it is hours before the sun can, if, reply.
Those remote, desolate hours are intolerable, hurtful.
They bring the piercing screams of silence and poignancy.
My wasteland is inhabited with moribund trees in the middle of spring.
This world knows regrets and disingtegrating logic.
Although the constant clouds conceal my world, no sign of rain befalls the thirsty earth.
The trees curved to the scorched ground, seeking mercy, weary and restless of this static infertility.
The throats of the passing birds have dried, no song can brighten the sky.
Insipid and dimlit, not even the sun can filter through the clouds or the thickness of the fog.
Somewhere in this world my body awaits demise.
This decaying rationality bringing peril and incoherence, not a breeze or a murmur of rain,
to quench the aching and consuming thirst.
I beg in silence, but the words seem to hang confined in this inclemency, alone 'till my waking hour.
The curtain has not risen, the night still falls in place.
How long before I can succumb to oblivion and quiesce this raging, tormentig thoughts?
There is no answer to follow the question because I am this world's, this hell's, this limbo, wretched creator.
And so with cracked lips, with ragged breath and stinging chest I remain in the inside of this deserted, and cracked state of mind.

They tell me I am a passing fancy,
that kissing the vapor of my skin is
like the ***** of sacred chambers.
They tell me I am cancer of the skin,
that my cells divide, unstoppable,
ignite the flesh at a lethal price of taste.
They whisper in my ear, sorrowful
pleas and sinful lullabies of promise;
and when tears slither acidic and sear
rosy imprints of a trail in the apples of
their cheeks,
they'll snivel and sniffle:
“But by God, I loved you.”
Despite the surly mood they often displayed,
like the tongue of silver from a metallic
taste of venom on the planes of my skin.
So, I told them I tire of synonyms of a same
word;
that loving a different person of different flesh
remains the same as long as character does not
fluctuate.

Have you felt the caress of rain
like a cautious, caring lover soothing pain away.
Touched the night sky with your gaze
felt it reciprocate with no haste.
Have you ever loved what no other had dared
adored?
Out of fear of the beauty of the unknown.
Sighed along with the thunder of a storm,
being captured in the flash of lightening strike.
Have you felt and failed,
despaired and wailed,
thought and smiled;
Let the clamour of the rain wash away the fears,
the tears?
Take a moment, breathe, remember your sanity
is far more important.
Have you had a moment for yourself today?

Take me somewhere nice,
where I can scream and not be heard;
cry and not be seen.

Take me somewhere
I can pour the pain,
spout these nonsense to the drain.

Take me somewhere I can sink,
vanish within the abysmal depths
of never ending sapphire;
where decay is a fable of forsaken
times

Take me somewhere nice,
where Death is but a whisper in
the receding breezes of Time.

Express more with the freedom
which simplicity can bring us.

The beast within, me, thrashes against its cage,
It is desperate for possession, dominace, and adoration.
It writhes with the madness of jealousy, it wants you.
To make you thoughtless and craving only but my name upon your lips.
Shattered and defenseless; to use my body as your cover and protection.
This selfish desires from the beast within.
It growls and gnawshes its teeth as you talk happily to another
touching them in friendly manner; heed poised to other.
It is irrational and mad; it knows-
Though careless and savage is the beast within us.
It wants to push you against the wall,
bound your hands and hold your mind.
Only this and nothing more.
However, for now and ever, the beast within my barred castle-
silently and wantonly stares at its prey; so close and yet so far away;
as you smiles completely oblivious.
God, ignorance is bliss, it silently thinks;
The beast within.

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

It dances in the darkened corners of galaxies,
sleeps amongst collections of brilliant stars.
Sways with the tug and push of merry tides
bringing sweet little shells for someone to find.

Ever patient awaiting its turn in the medleys of planets,
a persistent idea over the linear logic of time.
Its lashes are made of stardust and its aspirations bud with time,
it dreams of the waking world when all is still and silent,
stirs in ebony blankets,
willing the sunlight to dawn and sift to illuminate its opalescent
silhouette.

It skirts the boundaries of a seeking mind,
giving furtive glances of its outline
seducing a victim to fill in the lines.

A tool for an artists' oeuvre.

She’s tried to write so many times before but can’t. Sits down on the chair, fingers static over the keyboard. Where they were once electric with the flow of motion and words, they rest like the awkward break in a conversation.
She thinks it’s so hard to write when you’re happy, loved the despair and feeling numb, used them like gas for a one way vehicle with only a crash for a destination. She loved her sadness too much that now that she’s happy words have betrayed her.
What can she tell a world that relishes in the darkness of emotions, in the pain, the heartbreak, the despair, the sadness, the loneliness and the isolation when she herself thrived in the pessimism.
How can you water a flower that nurtured itself in misery?

I fell in love with the idea of you.
You know,
that unrealistic belief that the moon is made of cheese,
that I can walk above the water,
that people who fall in love live "happily ever after".
Oh you know,
that meeting you was fate, destiny, chance-and
God I want another-
and not simply coincidence mocking and plucking my
heartstrings.
But I was terrified of the hypothesis I formed of you,
of testing the conjecture and getting appalling and
contradicting results.
Thus,
to protect the fictional character of my book,
I clenched my teeth and walked right past you.

The light mankind has created although useful
has dulled and perhaps even made them blind
to the immaculate beauty of the night sky
and warm rays of sunshine days.
Now, it's not an argument or a condemnation
it is simply a sigh and an accommodation.

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.

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.

Some days I sit at the train station and pretend I am someone else. Everything is dully colored by the graying sky yet vibrantly staying vivid before my eyes. The passing trains transporting passengers, day to day, in the core of its system. A monster, a saviour, nothing, whichever you choose it to be. That is it. Its metallic surfaces colliding with the brutal rails, whinning and cringing its fixed despair. It is a beautiful day, you know? A day just the same as yesterday yet more aflame from the one before. Just like any other day. People going by and never coming back. There is not a minute in the world that is the same, each second more important than the last. Humanity, however, has neglected and forgotten the simplest joys of living, the tend to go by simply existing; thriving. Who cares? Nothing changes, things always in the same static time line of life.
It is december, a personal favourite, yet people mechanically function to the rhythm of ballads from the clock; tick tock, it goes. Entranced, subjected, loosing the spark of life. And now a second is a whisper, a minute but a yawn, and days, months and years the buzzing of a smart phone.
What really matters anymore?
The terrible train buzzing and rumbling the earth with its tremors; going on a fixed position. It is a carrier, another synthetic creation of the human "power". Now, we [consider ourselves] are nothing. Outsiders to our homes. My perception of the world affected by this so-called "evolutionary era".
Of what?
Well, social divergency, the rusting metal and the beeping notices on lighted screens. Apathetic and analytic.
Creating more problems and solving but one.

Life's a joke;
death's the punchline.
Now let's all laugh.

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.

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.

I'll be the girl with the tight, black dress;
the girl in the scarlet lipstick and smudged eyeliner,
the girl with fluttery lashes, standing at the corner.
I'll be at the back of the crowd, as couples dance
and sweet nothings are whispered from the speakers.
I'll stand in solitude, accompanied by misery
and loving every minute of it, as lights flicker;
a kaleidoscope of galaxies from effects of lighting.
I'll be the girl without a care for a partner,
hiding behind a mask of shadows.
I'll be the one who leaves early for another party,
dance with strangers in the eve of night;
a butterfly from flower to flower, as you go to bed
with hunger.
I'll be the first to see the dawn and the last to wake
from slumber, not quite sober.
I'll be the girl with the sour aftertaste in her mouth,
the one with the sly smile and yet another crime.

i don't deal with my problems;
i bury them in my yard and in
my haste forget that weeds grow
without the need of water.

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.

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.

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.

I am to see to it that I never find you,
dear my stranger.
Because if what Steven Chbosky said was
indeed true,
"We accept the love we think we deserve."
Then, I sure do not believe I deserve you.

Maybe the thumping of my heart had not matched
the clicking of your steps because only then would it
explain the havoc on the floor.
It's not your fault, I'm sorry;
it simply fell out of my sleeve and you trampled over it.
Nonetheless, I'm tripping over you once again
but all I find is the pavement to catch me as I fall.

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.

Once they've caught you
they'll take off the veil of pleasantry and manners-
to reveal the swine underneath; the wolf if you will.

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.

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.

what was i supposed to be?
imploded stardust, floating aimlessly across
the universe expanding, never minding
cruelty escaping, dissipating,
evaporating,
but i can't be nothing if i was something,
laws of conservation of energy rejecting
my lack of preservation.

i want liquid gold inside my veins,
ruptured mind, kaleidoscope bones
creaking in the night.

i'm lost, florescent daylight  
cold and grim, fabricated and burning my retinas
an eight hour parable trying, to stay afloat
but coming home and wishing dark behind
eyelids; burnt.

what was i supposed to be?
sunshine reflected on flowers
warm and liquid, amber in the windows
dripping, pain immersed in honey
making the best out of a leak flowing
endlessly through the tap,
my kitchen sink old but practical.

i was supposed to be me,
whatever that may be.

This desire to posses you is quite unbearable, it gnaws at my insides and scorches my flesh. This feverish love, I feel, growing more aflame. I want to entangle in a sweet and slow tango of rapid heartbeats and breathless sighs of love. Not only desire your body but also the beauty of owning your abstract heart. I want you to need me in all possible ways; to have the need to want the comfort and warmth of my small frame. To cup my face in the depth of your protective hands and to treat me as if I might break. Not only fragile but rough, crush me with the affection and passion of your bold embrace. I want to bite and kiss your lucious lips until I can satiate this dominating thirst to have you. So stay with me, stay until you need me, stay until you tire of me for I'll never will get enough of you.
I need you for as long as I live, and want you for as long as I can't hold on anymore.
All I truly want is to love and be loved by no other than you.

I want to love you, I promise,
even more than I do.
But how can I love you even more,
when I already do?
I want to be infinite with you-
but life gives you finite moments
and I enjoy those too.
So tell me,
so kiss me,
so hold me
and I'll return each and every gesture.

Let's hide underneath a starry duvet
just between the darkness
because I promise you the the stars
interwoven into a blanket and give
the moon to you as a plump pillow so
you can rest your dreams in the safety
of the possibilities.

You want me to leave you-
once the moon sets sail and
the sun makes its marked trail
back into the pink sands of the sky at dawn.
You think yourself so small,
not good enough for you and I.
And I can tell you many times
but you can't listen to me if
you keep covering your ears
with your palms.

Let's close our eyes, just here,
where the sun doesn't shine-
hurry! Before the light reaches us.

Let me show you,
what loving you is all about.

we become stories,
i've never had a first love;
but i've ******,
had one night stands
and morning goodbye's
told myself love is chemical
love fades and never comes back.

Love's a reaction,
at the right or wrong time;
we lie, we lay next to our selves, we seek
to feel a hole in, to make ourselve fill
in a mold that everyone's talked about
but;
what is love but imperfect.
Filled with some lies, with some hatred
with some humanity.

I love,
but I'll never be whole
and never a hole;
I'm complete yet
wanting to be less lonely.

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.

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.

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.

She sheds her tears up on the stage,
with words unspoken among the space.
Her lips are crimson red,
her hands tremble, not in fear but in rage
as regret lingers among the air.
A fiend of hell howls its disdain
near her ear roaring each complain,
as words are clogged behind ruby lips.
If her words be weather well they'd be a tempest,
tearing roots and breaking havoc.
If words be gentle well hers would remedy
the hearts of the forsaken.
But now they rest in their lined casket
for a voice that shall bring them forth
in to the realm of enunciation.

I want to paint your body with delicate
brushes of my words.
A scenery in which all is wonder and yet
there is nothing to ponder.
I want to write you in to my love notes,
envelope you in the soft embraces of
cadence of blankets as you caress the
words with the trail of stars that is your
eyes.
Fill the landscape with soft hues of Spring
to show you how much you mean.
I want to write you in to my verses and
expand the time you occupy in my tale.
Let me write you like one of my poems,
a liberating free verse you can fly upon
and expand.

For once,
I thought,
"I hope you are the one."