Poetry Was too good to be true,
Untill
It was the only cease,
For the clashing of two;
Brutish souls
From the cluttering
Of ruptures,
Of my subtle existence.

I wonder,
I still ponder.
I wouldn't be here
If not for you.

Do i loathe you
For giving me pain?

Or do i owe you?
For you taught me
How to form
Rhyming pairs
From my pain.

Once, what i used to
Believe it was you.
Now,
This is what makes me whole;
Poetry,
Is my home.

I pull the sheets over my head,
There's darkness around.
And suddenly it feels home.
Darkness perceives of what I've been longing for,
It's where i belong.
Where I'm not fearful.
Where nothing can harm me,
Solely, because I'm the only harm here.
A harm so murk,
That grasps every body it gets close to,
And persecutes it,
To demise.
There's no getting back,
There's no forgetting.
It keeps me awake,
The inquity.
It sweetly toxins me,
And I'm off to a deep sleep.
At whatever time,
I get pulled back;
Im prompted,
Prompted of all the gloaming mystic.
And I'm inescapable,
Of all the despair.
Im excessively unaware
Of all the agony it beholds.
That being,
A reckless pair.
Disheartened,
But faithful.
Accurate,
But flawed.
Hostile
But shambled.
Too much to complicate the shade,
And
Too little to interpret hell.
Yet,
Why?
Does this bring me tranquility?
Why does this bring me back home?

Been long since that paled sunny sky,
autumn winds are drifting by;
magic moving under skies,
never seen by waking eyes.
except for them,
to those who believe
blissfully, beaming autumn vibes.
dreaming as the days go by,
dreamingly, the summers die.
eager eye and willing ear:
a pleasing wonderful tale to hear.
in autumn when the leaves are brown;
reincarnating, a new better one,
take pen and ink and write it down,
till the tale is rightly done.

There are people
Under the sea.
Solitary,
Miserable
And exquisite.
They keep concealed
The treasures
Beneath them.
The beauty
Of which
Is incomparable.
I've only caught
Quite glimpses of them
In dreams.
As you know now,
They like to be veiled
With the cloth of the sea.
Take me,
To the lighthouse
Which is built
In their heart,
And allow me
To Uncover
The pre-eminent
Pearls.

Stare into the void.
They call me paranoid.

Weeping
Behind the curtains,
As soon as they fall.

Can't rest
My palms
On the ground,
The shattered glass
Will pierce into
My wounds.

Engraving
The grief
Into the cracks
Of my skin.

Screams
Overcrowd
In the chambers
Of my
Dark misery.

Dripping
Down my
Anatomy,
The wine red
Fluid;
Which defines my origin.

Writing;
With my own hands.
The story
Of how
I'll give up
On life.

Timid
And scared.
There i lie.
I can't breathe,
Nor can i tell you why.
Im gasping for oxygen,
Like there's nothing more
I could lose.
I'm feeling numb again;
Possibly for the 100th time.
I endure a rush
In my veins,
The poison
Of anxiety running through.
I lay right there,
Till i pass out;
With the help of this
Only theory:
That "It was just a dream."
A Bad Dream.