Sing me a song.

     Of how you love me.

Even if it's a lie.

      I don't care at all.

It's halfway through the week,
and the insides of my cheeks
are already peeling.
Feelings are numbing,
except the throbbing in my mind
pulsates.
I wait for the day
this race will end,
but until then
I'll endure.

[ARH]

A suicide note written in car-crash rhetoric
Telling me it was an accident
No one was supposed to get hurt
No one was meant to be in pain
The mangled metal
Tells me it wasn't all for naught
She put up a fight
She tried to fix herself
But when was the last time
A car was fixed without a mechanic
And then I'm reminded
Of why you left me
I was no mechanic
I was the faulty traffic light
Was i the one that sent you head on
Into the oncoming cars
Or the one that held you hostage
and started the sea of lights
Waiting impatiently behind you
Maybe I'm the reason you're gone
But there's nothing I can do but sit
Questioning everything I've ever said to you
I guess it doesn't matter either way
You're gone now

[holyoak]

Night falls,
as always.
Thoughts creep into your head,
old habits.
Sitting on the edge
of your bed,
you think about your day.
That sinking feeling that you always seem to get,
returns with vengeance as you try to rest.
The spiraling sentence that mirrors your mind
wraps around your conscious like a venomous snake.
"Is this real or fake?
Maybe I'm meant to break?"

[ARH]

I toss and turn
I'm awake and then gone
I can't control my own thoughts
And suddenly I'm falling-
Then I'm back.

It's hard to find
A single moment
When the wave starts to crash
They build with wrong intentions
And they never really end.
So violent off the coastline
But on the shore they breathe
Seeming so gentle and kind
Until they pull you out
To drown in their undying pain.
I always loved the sand
The feeling between my toes
Until I walked on the grass again
And the sand wouldn't leave
It held on with everything.

And now my thoughts
Are back to you
Because you're just like the ocean
And maybe that's why
I don't swim anymore

{NR}

If poetry is all about being human,
tell me: what is life worth?
For every Shakespearean verse
appears another, less rehearsed.
If our race has no end,
tell me: where are we running to?
Life is in the journey,
or so say
those less traversed.
Perhaps the truth lies
within ourselves.
Our own deceiving silver tongues
and two-faced cries for help.
If we just keep on writing
will the words mean something
else?
Or maybe if we stop thinking
we'll free ourselves from hell.
The stroke of pen on paper.
The slicing of a throat.
Maybe being human
involves a bit of both.
As for I,
I'll keep on running:
barefoot towards the coast.
Yet the castle in the sky will be my final
au revoir.

[ARH]