Dear J,
Thank you.
Thank you for dragging me when i was already down.
For making me hate my innocence when i had barely any left.
For staring into my eyes and telling me that they looked sad when all i wanted was to be happy.
Thank you J, for running me into the arms of T.

Dear T,
Thank you for picking me up when i was on the ground.
For telling me that my dimples were beautiful even when i felt like i was a smaller version of the moon.
For making me smile even when i had tears of sadness streaming down my face.
Thank you for making me forget J, the one who corrupted my mind and scrambled it up like a rubik's cube that has yet to been solved. The one who walked all over my unmarked grave and turned their back when i was reaching up from the ground in a  zombie-like state begging for help to be brought back to life.
Thank you for showing me what love is really like.
Thank you T.
and thank you J.

Once upon a time, long long ago.
There lived a little girl, who was all alone.

She had no one to talk to, to play with or laugh.
She just had herself and that made her sad.

One day she was walking and singing a song.
When all of a sudden a little boy came along.

He looked nice with his shining green eyes.
But little did she know, it was all a disguise.

They became friends, and hung out all day.
By the time night fell, nothing was left to say.

So they both went home with their heads hanging low.
Until one day they saw each other, and knew just where to go.

Down a path, through the woods, was a little tree house.
It had been inhabited by baby mouse.

She went in and sat on the floor.
While he ran after and then slammed the door.

The little girl got scared, but did not leave.
He walked toward her then got on his knees.

She was confused and watched him move.
She had a feeling she was about to lose.

He slowly crawled near her and got really close.
I think you know how the rest of this goes.

As days went by, she got even more scared.
Afraid that where she went, he would be there.

She was still hurting, but told no one.
Then one day she found a gun.

It was locked and loaded and ready to fire.
It was in her hand and she had the desire.

1, 2, 3 and bang.
No more her, no more songs to sing.

This poem casts a line from insomnia to morning
On the wind of a prayer that whatever bites, holds on.

See I have counted eleven score and ten,
with rainbow like curves of my neck -
contemptuous beasts leaping in formation
each bleating out a preach of vague platitudes;
A narrative for the night sky.

My hands clamour at keys for escape
until I tumble headfirst into a web so vast
it has ensnared the whole world wide -
millennials are living in-ter-net over in-the-world;
a new ultraviolence against humanity.

I beat my words into the screen until it breaks;
shattering scarlet emoticons like confetti
pouring over language as if it were a compliment.
My mind massages shapeless polypous thoughts
like tight constricted muscles aching for release.

3am casts these philosophies into horses,
whipping them into shape and speed
before the eyes of this statuesque ******.
This anxious wakefulness begs my manic self to dance;
suggestively ******* tickets to ride like cleavage.

Sleep is fast becoming a neglected former engagement;
as my mind trips over fallen heroes
wades through my favourite mistakes
in a wonderland unfolding faster than I can fall
while the world beyond my window remains dark.