The walls of Hell are moving walls
and Hell is the shell of my body.
I can't escape the monster's calls
because they ring inside me.

The walls of Hell are solid walls
Nothing can pass through them
Imprisoned inside, my heart cries,
and paints my veins with nights passing by

The walls of Hell are silent walls
You'd never suspect them to be
as piercingly violent as they are:
The walls of Hell wrapped around me.

"You don't wanna have stiff fingers, you want to feel the flow of
Him in them!
So stretch your fingers."
They said to Oscar.
"You'll be able to feel how vast the blue sky is and how beautiful He is if you do it enough"
And Oscar obeyed. He stretched them, and measured.
He was getting better at it and could feel a sphere of warmth in his hands as they clasped together. The flow was real, it was! His hands
glowed and eyes turned up to the Sky of Promises.
Spring bloomed on the petals of his fingers and at last
Oscar knew what it was like to hold peace in your hands.
Summer drowned him in light and Oscar
spent more time stretching than ever.
The warmth licked his legs as he ran past the world, grazing the bitter asphalt.
The tranquil ball bounced with him and snowballed with heat. Decay sank into plants
and Oscar watched as Cold fed on the soil.
Frosty grass glittered like the asphalt used to in the summer, but
Oscar's sphere got lost on the cold terrain
after he dropped it,
when he saw that the blue sky he had been promised
was not in fact blue at all and that
it would never be infinite.

Instead of a bell jar
I am trapped inside an hourglass
Sand scrapes my skin
unsurfacing memories of
your voice, your eyes,
faded images of me looking into them

Dust rains on me incessantly
eroding the shield I worked so hard to maintain
Drops of you grasp tightly onto me,
your nails are grappling hooks in my skin

The past swells with each dropping grain,
becoming heavier, until
your pulling weight unravels me.

We've mastered the art of finding sadness;
In a little house, inhabiting a tiny space
We understand its variations, its madness
We know its address, its hiding places

But happiness is more complicated
Rarely found, we're constantly searching.
Its attached to stereotypicality, abbrieviated
If not received, it causes constant hurting

It dwells over a vast continent
And thus the search is longer
We start to lose our confidence
The yearn for it grows ever stronger

The home of happiness has since grown
And iron lock placed on its door

The key seems lost, will it ever be found?
I think it lurks in disguised places
Not on sunny days, on lusious grounds
Or in gleeming eyes or smiley faces

It hides in misconception
Like a thief in the night
Drenched in deception
Ready to pounce, to fight

You off and those who stumble on
Sadness become addicted to the little house
And do not dare travel where they may get
Lost. But live in its hole, as a spinless mouse

We are terrified of the unknown
But we've never wanted something more

laugh at yourself
for being so silly
scream and shout
and argue
and doubt
forget for a few
minuscule seconds
and then remember
and wish more than
ever
to                                                         ­    
forget.                                                     ­     
just hope
and long and crave
for something different
for anything exciting
but not too daring.
thrive on love or
whatever you think it is.
convince yourself that
you are starving
without its companionship,
convince yourself that
solitude
is sufficient,
while you loathe what you are
but love it more than anything;
because at the end of the day
(week, month, year, decade)
you are all you have.