I learnt today that things hidden between the shadow and the soul are the most precious of all. Maybe there’s something about darkness that keeps, that stays, waiting for light to leave but still doesn’t reveal itself. I learnt today that somewhere, between the shadow and the soul is where dead things live.

Maybe in the dark we can both lay down our armors and no one will know. Maybe we can strip our bones of our skins and bath in the shimmer of night till we belong.There’re two lovers at the bottom of a well somewhere in the middle of nowhere with their souls dancing to the sound of sinking water.

There’s a rotten corpse that serves as a home to an earthworm and a field mice that know they shouldn’t be in love, but they come back to the dark everyday. There’s an alley that dances with its shadow every night when no one is around to judge. And I’m somewhere in between, between dancing alleys and sinking water, spread over the different shades of dark, between the shadow and the soul.

But with all this dark, nothing compares to mine, where I have hid me, somewhere between metaphors and mirrors. Cos the brightest of lights make the darkest of shadows, so we hide in plain sight, a dozen fake smiles away from sunset, waiting for night to come.

My heart has never been good at solos, its always been too much flutter and skip and too little beat. It is a glass jar holding two whirl winds always leaving pieces of broken dreams on the kitchen floor that pierce the soul.

My lungs are two empty revolvers searching for bullets in every breath, something to make my words hold the whole world to ransom. But they are beginning to learn to give way to the ears.

My feet are constant reminders that time is just as important as distance and sometimes a fast life does nothing but set a clear path for the slow and the steady. So walk, one step at a time fast enough to clear a path but slow enough to leave your foot prints in the grass.

My fingers have always loved puzzles, whether jigsaw or broken hearts, but my knuckles have always loved trouble. Together they fix as much as they break. They are experts at gathering loose ends of old strings that once held me together trying to sew me together again, but they are still learning to wipe tears.

But my mind is both battleground and cemetery, it is a bed of roses growing in gunpowder. It is still learning that only death before life can prepare you for life after death, but it knows that only true love can give birth to awkward poets with too much cloud and too little earth. So bury me with pen and paper and just maybe I would bleed words till I’m nothing but bones and rose seeds. And maybe I will live on, planted somewhere in the mind of another, a memoir of words and anonymous legends.

As long as people see themselves in art, metaphors will always be the best place to hide truth.
Because I will rather say “two fireflies that fall in love in the belly of a dragon might just stand a chance in hell” than explain that the tough times make us stronger.
But maybe fireflies don’t fall in love, maybe you and I are two wet wind-shield wipers that love playing chase in the rain but never do touch.
We shouldn’t have tossed our hearts around, gravity always finds a way to win, whether it be falling in love or breaking hearts.
There’s an anchor of cobwebs and strings that should never have been attached, but the deep of my voice would always be a resting place for your worries. Even when life puts shorelines and new loves between us, I’ll always have a metaphor that carries you in its arms. I would always have pennys for your thoughts and paper cups with holes made for old strings.
As long as people see themselves in art, metaphors will always be the best place to hide truth.
Because I will rather say that patience is a key to a door I haven’t found yet, than explain that most times I don’t know what I’m waiting for.
But maybe the fear of the unknown makes pacifists out of activists and poets out of lovers.
If words could make you sweat as much as they make you cry, the world would be a better place.

Somewhere at the centre of every tornado is a violin playing “surrender to the good Lord”.
The skeleton of every raging storm is an orchestra of rivers overflowing with sin and blood from all the times I’ve tried to wash myself clean. So being planted by the river doesn’t help me much anymore.
But I hear there’s something of a Jordan to your tears, something of a white to your blood. So take me to your river, deep me in your smooth waters. I hear you have experience with ****** hands. I hear you have holes in your hands from where the nails used to be, I have a few holes too, and all the superglue music doesn’t seem to keep the rain from coming in. “So take me to your river, l wanna go”
Been travelling this road for so long now. With nothing but an echo of mama’s voice and a faulty compass heart to guide me. Most times I just follow the sound of water, hoping to find a river to go with the flow.
So on those days, when the sun is nowhere to be found, and two stars in a black sky are all there is to remind you that home might as well be billions of miles away, allow me to sink. Cos swimming just feels like another tornado gathering strings.
I’m trying to find my way home, with an army of brown skinned girls with tomato lips that always tempt you to bite, with a cup overflowing with blood that needs emptying and with a heart with missing pieces from all the times its been broken trying to free the creatures that hide inside.

He says that if you walked long enough in one direction, you’ll only end up where you started.
He says that bullets and escape shuttles share the same address and veins are just smaller bridges. so he leaped off the edge of a knife and even though he felt like he never made the cut his wrists didn’t always feel so.
Good times are just cushions we try to rack up to fall back to when the bad times come. He’s been falling on the same cushion for so long it’s not different from the concrete.
The world is a dark room and he still hasn’t found the light switch.
On days like today, he tries with all the walk that ******* has left him.
On days like today, when the world is trying its hardest to prove to be black and white, he tries to be a gunshot in the spine of a rainbow.
When you die we’ll put two money stacks on your eyes cos heaven has to be far from this hell hole that we live in
But you know better than most that you know nothing about what comes after death.
So sail, sail on a canoe of timber and broken dreams on a river of your own blood. Cos maybe heaven is better believed than lived

He says that if you walked long enough in one direction, you’ll only end up where you started.
He says that bullets and escape shuttles share the same address and veins are just smaller bridges. so he leaped off the edge of a knife and even though he felt like he never made the cut his wrists didn’t always feel so.
Good times are just cushions we try to rack up to fall back to when the bad times come. He’s been falling on the same cushion for so long it’s not different from the concrete.
The world is a dark room and he still hasn’t found the light switch.
On days like today, he tries with all the walk that ******* has left him.
On days like today, when the world is trying its hardest to prove to be black and white, he tries to be a gunshot in the spine of a rainbow.
When you die we’ll put two money stacks on your eyes cos heaven has to be far from this hell hole that we live in
But you know better than most that you know nothing about what comes after death.
So sail, sail on a canoe of timber and broken dreams on a river of your own blood. Cos maybe heaven is better believed than lived

He says that if you walked long enough in one direction, you’ll only end up where you started.
He says that bullets and escape shuttles share the same address and veins are just smaller bridges. so he leaped off the edge of a knife and even though he felt like he never made the cut his wrists didn’t always feel so.
Good times are just cushions we try to rack up to fall back to when the bad times come. He’s been falling on the same cushion for so long it’s not different from the concrete.
The world is a dark room and he still hasn’t found the light switch.
On days like today, he tries with all the walk that ******* has left him.
On days like today, when the world is trying its hardest to prove to be black and white, he tries to be a gunshot in the spine of a rainbow.
When you die we’ll put two money stacks on your eyes cos heaven has to be far from this hell hole that we live in
But you know better than most that you know nothing about what comes after death.
So sail, sail on a canoe of timber and broken dreams on a river of your own blood. Cos maybe heaven is better believed than lived