Tap-tap* the pens race
whilst hearts beat at an ungodly pace.
Never before have I seen such a frown
on such a smile-accustomed brow.

I wonder, if heavy hail were to fall
would they even notice at all?
Their dear old pencils are on the grind
as they chew them with an absent mind.

However, some are not as amused as I am
as each minute on the clock appears ******.
They fidget in irritation, their patience hardly deep,
and some even try a hand at sleep.

Exams. What a cumbersome concept to me.
So much time allowed, but hardly freed.
What excitement when the bell strikes, friends!
Then, our drooping eyes study.
And it starts.
All. Over. Again.

In ran the boy with his regular case
of cheery disposition which he displayed.
The house screamed of anarchy for instead
of his loving family, he gazed upon dread.
The tall man - so dark, with hands so cold -
stared with black eyes, that showed no soul,
at the boy; so pure, almost perfect did he appear.
So, the man rested his hands to avoid causing him fear.
"Good-day," said Mr Evil, "What be your name?"
The boy stated his title with his bravery in vain.
"Where is my brother? My parents too?
Surely I do not know you."
Mr Evil's smile took on a sinister shape
until he resembled that of a snake.
"Why, my boy, me I do believe you know.
I am under your bed when you're at home.
I am in the eyes of the murderer; the glint of his knife.
I am in the fist of the man as he beats his wife.
I am in the face of the liars, cheaters, those who hate -
actually, I am all over the place!"
The boy, yet too young to understand,
stared in bewilderment at the man;
trying to decipher if it be a lie
or truly the man's alibi.
"As for your family," Mr Evil did proceed,
"I'm afraid they had to leave.
They went to a place of wonder and sun
where they are in contact with no-one.
Oh! How the birds sings and the trees are tall.
And the grass catches the dew that falls!"
The boy now searched for a place in his mind
that would match the heavenly realm described.
"Are they in the woods?" he cried in carefree -
his naive smile causing his gleam.
"Now that you mention it, they are indeed.
All three.
Hanging from a tree."

They say I’m losing touch on what’s important:

School, study, a job.

So I can pay back dad and mom.

They say I’m not realistic enough,

because the world is tough

and if I don’t do it right, I’m a stuff-up.

Who needs dreams when you have a Lamborghini, right?

All the money in the world, for sleepless nights.

The picture perfect spouse, for a thousand fights.

Fancy clothes and a house, for an internal plight.

Working yourself to death until your cheeks go white.

Losing focus on your dreams until you go blind.

Letting society consume you until you lose your life.

Your life is a nightmare, but you’re not dreaming.

A heart designed to carry joy, instead is seething.

You can’t hear anything except your screaming.

You check your heart but it’s not beating.

You’re not living; you’re only breathing.

Stop.

I’m not chasing paychecks:

I’m chasing foreign sunsets.

I long for antiques and books and eccentric notions.

I desire creative people with intense emotions.

I want colour; I want paint.

I want dancing in the rain.

I want to feel foreign waters’ cool touch.

I want to visit places with nothing and yet, much.

Take me to places I’ve never seen.

Cue the saxophone in New Orleans.

You may see the world in black, white and grey.

I see it in a colourful array.

They think I’m crazy because of the things I dream.

They think life is harder than it seems.

The can’t understand me.

But they’ll die in the dark,

regretting what they should have done.

While I’ll drown in a sea of flowers,

under the kaleidoscopic sun.

Butterflies, butterflies, butterflies.
They keep soaring.
They glide beautifully, slowly.
But with your approach, they reach a frenzy.
I try to stop them.
Put them in a net.
Shove them in a jar.
Throw them out of my eyes.
And have them tumble far.
But they glide beautifully. Slow.
They flutter frantically when you're close.
I shout at them. Scream.
Beg them to be quiet.
Viciously try to suppress their riot.
They won't listen. No matter what I do.
They just keep trying to fly to you.
Then they're still.
For that second.
Then you touch me.
And they dance, sing - go crazy.
They fly our through my eyes and into yours.
So when I finally look up, slowly,
your eyes are glowing.

I’m feeling terrified.
I’m feeling terrified and hollow.
I’m terrified of the decisions I’ve made,
And the ones to come.
I’m terrified of the dark,
That slowly eats me alive.
I’m terrified of the poisonous black ink,
Trying to discolour my heart,
That’s not sure pure anymore.
That’s not so whole anymore.
I’m terrified of no human being,
But me.
I’m terrified of my brain.
That made me experience insanity
In it’s purest form.
The overwhelming
Overthinking
Poison that’s fed
From the voices in my head,
To the demons in my heart.

You're a hideous creature.
A disgusting slave
To your emotions
Of lust and pain.
Have some self respect.
Give yourself some love.
But irksome are you;
your yields are not enough.
Familiarise yourself
with self control; restraint.
You're a demon imp,
Though claim to be a saint.
Neither prayers nor witchery
Can help you now.
For all your life,
to this idol you've bowed.

I woke up to a sunrise this morning -
a beautiful pink sky
with gentle clouds of yearning.
My drowsy eyes arduously stared;
(still in a dream) they were not prepared
for what would first meet them - this sight -
when they had closed for the night.

Slowly, my smile starts growing
as, slowly, the sleep leaves me.
The blushing sky whispers.
The blushing sky sings
songs of life, of beauty and wondrous things.

Incredulous, I am rapt.

I can't help feeling undeserving.
After revealing it's kingship
it slowly sings me back to my restless sleep.

I woke up to a sunrise this morning -
a beautiful pink sky.
In the dawn, the only person alive.

I'm starting to wonder if these old ways I detest
are part of my flesh.
The cuts on my wrists, instead of healing,
become a playground for my demons.
Rid me of this!
Rid me of this please!
For I'm reaching a point of barely being able to breath.
Melancholic joy.
Irate surrender to the voices in my head
that wish me dead.
In desperate escape, I reach a barred door.
The pain would not be this intense if I had not tasted freedom before.
While I scream, they sing.
While I drown, they swim.
Never again.
I dream of never again.

With your touch I feel the shocks of love course through my skin.
With one single kiss, I am rapt.
Hopeless.
Fallen.
The sun must be so jealous that your laugh is brighter than she.
And if my life's mission was to harvest that luminosity -
Then blessed am I
To have experienced a lifetime's worth of exuberance
With you.

I don't love you.
I tried to. I wanted to.
You were my book - I treasured and studied you.
You rapt me, yet to myself I wasn't true.

If I loved you -
why my fickle heart?
If I loved you -
where was my soul?

I deserve your fire.
I deserve your being ire.
I deserve your indignation;
but, my dear, not your accusations.

You don't want to believe when I say
I don't play with hearts. It wasn't a game.
I guess it's okay.
I know my reasons not to stay.

For I too was caught in the ocean.
Yours still. Mine sporadic motions.
The nights I suffered. I felt meek.
In the cold, my tears turned to ice on my cheeks.

If "thought-love" was an emotion
you would have received a mass of this devotion.
Now, my lover part has been exchanged for a demon.
My dear, are you aware, I am human?

Forgive me, Day,
for harassing your flowers
with my ever so hungry eyes.
They flaunt their beauty
only in your presence,
so, I was caught quite by surprise.

Must you keep them to yourself?
Must they only be yours?
Or would it give you a fright,
to let them flirt and sway all day
and then allow them to dance at night?

Oh, if only they could.
They smile so sweetly at the grass.

Dreamily, they lift their eyes to the sky.
Forgive me for harassing your flowers, Day;
but at dusk, I make them mine.

Eager mind,
what stops you is not made of flesh and bone,
but you alone.
You have so much to say
and yet you refrain -
only to promise to another day.
You think you may be fine, carrying on like this,
but you're digging your own ditch.
Even this is a dramatic outburst from inside;
for your soul you're trying to hide.
Why did you let your head grow downwards?
You used to be so good with words.
Are you now?
Can you still feel it in your bones?
The only thing stopping you
is you alone.