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I like to stare listlessly
At the night sky for long
Durations of time, as if my
Gaze will compel the stars
To align to breathtaking ends.
Alas, they stay put,budge they
Don’t, a sneer streaks my
Face as my pride’s hurt.
And a tear droplet materializes
On the corner of my eye.
Maybe the moon prefers her
Star friends to remain as they’re.
Dazed,amazed,but the night's sky's unfazed
A soulful song
Escaping from a depthless
Oasis of stillness.
The absence of sound.
Inspires an inspection of one's
Spiritual architecture.
When words are deemed superfluous.
Maybe it’s time to make a fuss
As how else other than in verse
Would one attempt to pass
A message across to a large mass.
Just wondering how life would be
without the convenience
of the presence
of words.
Ayer is the Spanish word for yesterday

I am his *ayer

His tomorrow I’ll never be
All the days have been stolen away
By an unyielding melody

I am his ayer
He’s the only air I breathe
The smell of lilies gone
Polluted by my disease

I am his ayer
He is my Aries
I can’t live without his fire
My heart he still carries
I'm still trying to figure out if this poem flows nicely... Work in progress.
How to tell?

I've always loved that deep, deep red,
Soft as velvet, Smooth as fire.
It's imagery stark, whether in;
Winter whites,
Dark greys, or,
The Hustle'n'Bustle of colour's Chrome ire,
With all the things it represents,
Fame, fortune, Dripping from your nose,
Slashed on your skin, love
And Romance, written on your tongue,
Warmer; than all Hell's scorching pits,

And now staring at the sink,
I feel it, so much more,
Than everything.
A clear gauze blur,
On crunched China bone,
And rubbery plastic cartilage,
Like heels into snow,
I sink into the Crimson Ink
And stare into the sink
But how to tell?
Which Crimson is which?
Is all that I can think*.

Is it Love, Lust, Hell, Pain,
Blood, Fire, Fortune and fame,
Romance and Roses,
In all that I think,
As I see more
- and deeper yet sink-
Into how
Life writes it lines
.Deep.
In Crimson Ink.
Since I cannot cure my schizophrenia
I decided to end my owned dilemma
I looked for a rope to hang my head
But split in two, that old rope left me undead

But that was not enough to stop my will
In our kitchen, a shining blade
But I pause for awhile for the reason
That I might pass out undead

So I then looked for a key
To open the cabinet
Unsealed the gun that was strictly kept
To put into my head that one tiny bullet
Just one shot and for sure I’ll be lucky dead
I pulled the trigger it didn’t clicked

Then I realized I've never done any
I’m stocked in my lonely room
Chatting with nymphs, those god’s so holy
Then I began to chill while facing demon and ghost so scary

My world was full with delusions
I can fight no more this emotion
Since they cannot cure my schizophrenia
How I wished to end my owned dilemma

But how can I?
They don’t want me to
I was incarcerated in this empty room
No rope to hang this head
No blade to slash my pulse
No gun to point in my head...

written: July 01, 2014
Mysterious Aries
My Schizophrenia Poem #1
When I become tired of you, I take a nap.
A girl's bedroom is full of choices
Which she must choose to stop the voices.

Hair curly or hair straight?
Leave early or just wait?
Tall stilettos or comfy flats?
Quirky bag or one to match?

The saddest part of this conundrum
Is she's trying to impress a special someone
Who'll work his way into her bed
And then join the monsters in her head.
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