whatever you
do
don't
let the
grind
get to
you.
bottomless pits are made by wizards,
hell is a mythological location,
there's no black and white without gray
the peace
of life
comes at you
in the strangest, depression-fueled
drug-crazed moments
serenity
is only a
revelation
away.

I gave the hero of this story trust
issues. So that when his castle fell he
wouldn't worry about the damsel still
calling from the ramparts, where I hold court
in the dust. For this is my battlefield
where the headstones will read like love letters
and the weeds will serve as the royal seal.

I gave the hero of this story hope
a magic bean and two old china cups.
But the china, brittle, the bean rotten
as these once fertile lands lie waterlogged.
You can't grow your crops here, boy, go home.
I'll drown this hero before he can stand
the sight of the muddy bank. A hero's death.

I gave the hero of this story bread
water, and melody. To help him sleep
soundly and noiselessly, still. Arms, pillows
sway to the metronome of the city
beating such a heroic retreat. Stand
with fingers touching, childlike and brave.
Until the next wave comes and holds. It breaks.

If by the grace of something higher,
The stars are shining dimly,
On this city stretched below.
Cars whisper of running,
Leaves tell stories of the old,
The darkness sustains these tales,
Draws you in and leads you astray.

The stillness is comforting,
You pull it tightly around yourself,
Whisper that you need it,
That it keeps you sane,
Keeps you warm,
Whole,
Complete.

It's a lie.
You know that.
But you're always running,
Spinning webs of false truths.
Even your eyes no longer betray,
The coldness within your core.

Moths are drawn to a flame,
Like the thought of winter,
Draws you in and murmurs,
Sweet nothings that you hold dear.

My bitter one,
You're wasting,
Rotting,
Decay is falling from your lips.
Your face is writ with creases,
Folding paper,
Drawing lines.
You, as well, will soon be gone.

On this very day so dreary,
While I wrote poetry weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, there came a tapping,
As of some one gently r-r-r-rapping at my bedroom door.
''Tis some visitor,' I muttered, 'rap-tapping at my bedroom door -
Only this, and nothing, oh I say Poe Nothing- more.'

This is what happens when we improvise Edgar Allan Poe. on dark days.

You're just a want
And I need you.
You're nonchalant
I can't have you.
The words just taunt
Me, but I love you.
You're never a flaunt-
-full item, you're you.

I stand at the edge of the world
My hands are callous and I am alone
We promised this is where we would meet
When the earth met its end
All of the corpses and burnt crumbled buildings
Are leading you to me
Because we said we’d come here
When the world is over
And all are dead and gone
We’d be the only ones
No more worries and no more thoughts
So I destroyed the earth to bring you home
To bring you here
But you forgot
So here
I stand at the edge of the world
My hands are callous

And I am alone.