You are laid in my arms.
You charm me as a snake does.
You kiss my lips,
My life with you is pure bliss.
I'm laying in the arms of heaven,
Chaste, but not pure.
You purr at me from a perfect distance.
Pray baby,
let us fly,
Let us cruise the purplish skies.
The clouds are black,
Now there's no turning back.
The corkscrew turns,
A pressure release.
This tormenting tiger,
Can be a loving lion.
So lets ****,
Let's **** each other up,
To the rhythm of the dark.
(c) Livvi

Due to the graphic nature of the universe, creative expression is advised.

Should I be concerned about the state I'm in?
I'm not sure how bad it is,
honestly
I can't tell because
what used to be bad days are good days now
and I guess that's what people mean when they say
you'll learn how to live with it.
I think you just become one with your demons
and soon you're saying things you never thought you would
like maybe happiness isn't all everyone says it is,
maybe weakness is a kind of strength,
maybe I just won't get better and that'll be okay because
recovery
is a marathon, not a sprint
but some days I can't even bring myself to get out of bed
so that trek seems impossible.
I am getting used to the emptiness;
I hardly think about it now,
and by that I mean I always think about it so
it doesn't seem like a big deal anymore
and these days crying is a nonevent,
my eyes are bloodshot more often than they are clear,
and my friends have stopped asking how I'm doing.
I guess I seem pretty stable and
I guess that's accurate,
I'm pretty regularly in a state of numbness
manifesting itself in
tequila and
the word okay and
art that people choose not to see the underlying meaning in.
I have written a suicide note every day for the past six months
but I call it poetry
and that somehow makes it okay to say these things-
by putting my turmoil into stanzas
it becomes a metaphor rather than a cry for help and
nobody will take this one seriously, either,
nobody seems to be concerned about the state I'm in.
I am learning to live with it.

See the sky,
it's burning green,
Recanting the tale of the eyesore,
It's invading the skyline.
A newly created tower of Babel,
where none can speak our mother tongue.
Some won't listen anyway.
The authorities,
those powers that be,
painted my skyline,
with a blaze of green,
and somewhat sickly yellow.

Jeopardized my locality,
Played. a dodgy game of risk.
Community spirit evaporates,
as big fish businesses,
digest all the little fish,
Within in the happy village,
a.k.a metropolis.

It's happening everywhere you see.
Through powdered eyes scratched,
Itchy and dry,
by construction,
big builders,
the pus,
the toxic grip.
The scourge on the skyline,

Stolen my space,
obliterating garden view.
If the choice were mine,
I'd dress the
sky with decadence,
with stars,
not stripes of colour ,
Give the council options,
Give them half a chance,
they'll build upon our forest hills.
(C) Livvi

Viking ground. The belly of
Norway. Music like thunder
Keeping whole villages awake.

Swords, spikes, norse jewelry
And black, black metal
Of the kind that honours

Those who were here before
These hundreds of metal heads
And contemporary heathens.

She works in the beer tent,
Throwing long gazes my way,
That I return.

She took
Me
Here.

Stars above a stage lit with a
Thousand shades of neon that
Emphasize the

Ground locked mist; breath
Of Odin and His believers.
I love this music; this brutal

Noice within system. I love these
People. They seem scary from
Afar, but share a brothership

Within their worship.
Enslaved is one of the most
Famous bands within the

Genre. The guys still join the
Roadies, clearing the stage
From their gear.

She is a little spirit,
her head escapes as springtime flowers,
only for her,
she is not dark, as midnight skies,
as she speaks the truth and tells no lies.
Her words are just a hobby,
a,not at workplace occupation.

She is what you see,
when her words you read,
a fantastic imagination.
She wants you to see what she physically doesn't,
but in her brain she does create,
almost a work of art,
She is almost the Mona Lisa,
an enigmatic work of art.
with a pen that's fueled by rocket fuel.
showing empathy and sympathy,
and clear understanding.
She wants you to be able to appreciate her weird words,
the ones she generates
To feel them,
to see them.
to breathe them.,
maybe, even drown in them,
metaphorically of course.

She never was a lunatic,
baying skywards,
at the crescent moon,
She has the sun in her hair,
and care in her eyes,
A soul filled up with passion,
as ink spots,
being ejected from her purple pen.
(C) Livvi