everything is bathed in white
less pure than summer,
muddier, grey but piercing.
the drab and dragging cold
reaches through to touch bone
and turns everything to slush.
for once in a long while,
everyone is as muted as I.

I have this vague vision of tangerines bleeding
into blue green skies.
Or maybe cat puke melding with the emerald
carpet beneath my feet.
Some sort of merging, colors, textures, clear and
pristine but elusive.
I have no idea what I'm going on about but I
know it is important.

Like the ichor of the gods dripping from your lips, these bottled, lonely, spirits course through my veins.

I am small, just a child with a soft voice, and brittle bones,
I keep to the darkness, only mysterious in my silence, stemming from the fear of my own voice.

You are the darkness in which I find comfort. You are fierce, steel, cold and cynical. Your voice is raspy and enticing, without a hint of remorse for the space it occupies.

its a coughing death
one of subtlety and only
passive irritation.
its a chosen death,
but slow, for the faint of heart
afraid to take the swift and sure route.
i know they **** me
but its exactly what
i want.

I am an aging immortal,
exponentially expanding
knowledge through time
while my skin shrivels and
my senses dull. I surpass
the sad image of old age,
I veer into the morbid,
macabre.

The sharpest clarity graces my mind and sight
Accompanied by an increase
in gravity and thicker air.
Wading through something dense yet
less resistant than water
I feel hazy and intoxicated by
the prickling stars above
Falling to the bed of grass,
dew caress my weary bones.
I've found my home,
familiar and alien,
Its all my own.

I keep dreaming of a darkened room
cold as ice and filled with you
your essence, your smell, every inch
a remnant of a better time.

What if the white rabbit guides you home,
safe and sound,
no rabbit holes, or falling down,
and you grab it by its ******* throat and rip it apart because you're tripping ***** and I don't know how to ******* help you and I'm not a ******* rabbit so
please
stop...

there's frost growing from my fingertips like prickling moss and i can feel it stinging on my lips, the heat of my body lacks aggression, as do I, and so the cold things grow, immortalizing me in their crystalline life.

I spent years spinning straw into gold,
weaving a cast to make myself whole
to guard and heal these once brittle bones
but you make me feel stupid and soft and squishy
and sappy and mawkish and awkward and pretty
like a vapid princess in my black tower
you, dumb prince were meant for the living
but stubborn and young and without misgiving
you fell from the light and the grace of the gods
to be with a girl with many facades.

There is a cold and constant rain that leaks through my bones
Holding me together, more life giving than my mediocre blood
And weakly beating heart.
My frame is creaking despite its young age, worn down and
Falling apart from the inside out.

May the ground hold my bones better than I ever did.

I've become an alcoholic.
I drink until its socially acceptable
to lock myself in my room
to avoid the plague of humanity
dwelling in the revealing sunlight,
orange caked faces melting into the dirt.

I open my eyes to glowing stars
I close them to racing cars
Lights, lights in the dark

stumble down the hall
in the rain of mercury
where the astronauts roam
and the apothecary dances
free

help me to my room
through the skulls
that have piled in the corner
with the cat and her
troupes, wait,
forget the
former

Im a little hazy
little dumb and can't
quite find the **** of
the drum or the key
and the bird over there
is looking at me

nevermind
you can leave
I'll make my home among
these things, its crazy and cold
and ****** and bold
but I think it could be
home.

For an excessively passive person
I'm easily annoyed, easily appalled.
People are so stupid, vapid, mediocre
and you know its true so you try to
be deep and meaningful, dramatic
to justify how absolutely and inevitably
pathetic you are.

I have a fleeting mind of a higher grade,
and no one to sharpen my wit on,
so I seek conversation in the saddest places
where depth is a trend and people wear melancholy as fashion.

With lofty airs and
folding chairs
we formed our grungy rule,
we grew from weeds and
broken swings
into a pungent cool,
Our reign is *****, decadent
more indulgent than your dreams
for we lost our morals
and our hope among
the broken things.

If I listen quietly
past the creaking of this cave
I hear a monster, violently,
digging its own grave.

If I wait a minute more
Its tears will fade away
And all that's left is stupid lore
A monster steeped in gray

I'll paint you a brain and a heart and some thoughts
I'll draw up some plans for a life that lacks rot
and you'll learn how to learn and to walk and to talk
you'll learn how to live in a life riddled with fraught
you'll stumble and fail and feel boisterous hope
only to die with a heart unable to cope.

blood is soaking your skin
staining you red,
my devil.
light shines through your eyes
and your charred hair
singes my skin.
you're electric, you're fire
i'm air and ice
teach me.
teach me to burn.

I'm floating on a dandelion
over dead dinos and growing grass
the world is so lovely now
I hope I never come down
from hazy days and frosted leaves
winter is approaching and
I'm feeling warm and dizzy
and bright.

In the mirror I am grown.  Fully, and wholly, a human being.
Looking inwards I am small. 12 years old, marveling at the person I’ve become, and the person I somehow was and still am.
Separate, side by side, I exist on multiple planes, in many directions, through all dimensions, different but constant.
The same.

I'm holding out for better days,
but while I'm here,
while I wait,
I'd really love a drink.
Or some dust to take me through the clouds.

I hate mornings
I want to sleep but I want to stay awake
I don't want to miss anything
and in the process I've come to learn
that in the short future my current pain
won't matter, in a manner of hours I'll
be on a different plane of existence and
won't even feel the lethargic movement
of painful mornings and unending
evenings.

I want to tell you I'm okay
and that all is peachy keen.
I want to say I'm doing fine
and that my grades are pristine
but I alone am not enough
and despite my desperate need
for control I think I need help
of the medical persuasion,
and I'd like to think I'm strong
on my own,
but honey have you tried *******?

The words in my head form perfect thoughts
but as soon as they hit the air, all sense is gone.

I need help but I don't want it
and I can't breach that barrier
because I love myself
and hate myself
and love hating me.

Feeling the thrum of ignorance and bliss warm my veins
and the cadence of rebellious refrain guide my steps
I can't imagine feeling any worse or better than I do right now.

I am neither good nor bad,
Happy nor sad,
Ethereal and wordless
I transcend to
Nothingness.

The white outside is screaming in my skull
and I'm begging for the whispers of dark to regain their hold,
The blue on the mountain speaks to the gold of the
once living grass poking through snow
The red of my nose is burning like ice and its laugh is too jolly
to the green of my eyes, who beg only to be closed.

You're a stumbling fumbling child
with pretty words lacking context
and an pretty face lacking depth.
You hold your head high as you
spout loudly with an air of intellect
that would only fool those without
such an inclination.

Its a good thing you're pretty.

I'm only skin deep
and separate from myself
burrowing in this flesh
for a short time
and i feel bad for how
much i hate this body
that i'm in and i
often wonder if i cut through
the layers deep enough
would we separate.

i appreciate your service
and willingness to host
my sickening consciousness
but i'm really not deserving
nor do i really want this
so to whomever i stole
my body from just know
that i know that
i'm ungrateful.

I am too many different people for you to ever comprehend
each turn I take, each time I wake, a different voice is in my head.
I think I'm  here, beneath it all, but I can't really tell.
I am an unreliable narrator even to myself.

feeling the sloping curve of your lips
stroking the cold brittle paper of your skin
gazing into your deadened graceless eyes
I can't help but think your beauty surpasses
any that one of the living could achieve.

I, a puddle on the floor
lying lowly evermore,
while solid structures
rise above and worry
little about flood.

I'm nothing more than everything
you ever wished that I  could be
I'm nothing less than a hoarse scream
that echoes through your empty dream.

What are you going to do
when everything you thought you knew
turns away and leaves you to the wolves.
What are you going to do
when the plans you once drew
are no longer legible.
What are you supposed to do
when your psyche turns to something new
and the voices in your head are no longer familiar.
What are you supposed to do
when you find out red is really blue
and you're a muddled shade between.

Honey, you're a dark force
and I'm a dark horse,
maybe we can run together.

You're out on the porch smoking again
and I'm in here alone hoping for the end
and slowly but surely we're both seeking death

When thoughts stream through my head-
They acclimate into a presence-
Dark and smothering-
Sinister Nothing.

My home is in the dark
the light will not abide
my home is stark and white
the world is standing by

I need somewhere to roam
where my dark thoughts can be
without judgement.

No one seems to get my humour,
apparently my suicidal thoughts
aren't funny

My cynicism has seeped into my veins
and now my heart beats to its awful cadence
and I've found comfort in its crude caress

leaves like tiny people dance beside the curb
and I just stare, wishing my enthusiasm matched theirs,
these cold castaways have more life than I.

I think.. I think I dreamt about you.
Or maybe its a memory...
just a remnant of your face
your silhouette before me
its dark and cool but temperate
and shadows dance upon your face
while my head plays that familiar
song repeatedly.

I've been in bed for over 24 hours
looking at everyone I grew up with
and wondering if I'm sad.

You don't know the half of it
and I don't know the whole
so maybe in the middle we can meet
and compare notes.

I'm tripping ******* the seam between the sidewalks
listless and breathless I'm falling back and forth,
holding out for a helping hand,
waiting for my knight.

i rose in structure, guided and conroled
carefully tendered and formatted to be
organized and on track
but as soon
as i left my home
i lost all that, though it barely ever took hold.
I just drank an entire *** of coffee and am now heading to bed
my floor is made of clothes and my shelves are made of books
and the glow in the dark stars on my ceiling are for the little girl
who wasn't allowed to tarnish her perfectly painted room
and i think being raised in such control has lead to an
excessive chaotic behaviour.

i see love and light and cringe
at its generic quality, all the same
all beautiful and endearing and encouraging
and i can't help but feel the cynic in me laughing
at the mawkish displays and efforts
and at my own generic skepticism

just one charming quality of my
self deprecating form of narcissism