Boredom mixed with anxiety churns in my stomach like a witch stirring her cauldron with gaseous fumes pouring over the top if it. I look around the chapel at all of the faithful companions of Christ, blind to the world, each alone inside their corridors of thoughts and aspirations with walls reeking piety and devotion. Lurking over his congregation, as a child does over his coveted toys, the priest made his way down the expansive stretch of red carpet, its parameters where lined with gold, like timber in a holy fire place.  The priest began his journey of inspection, trying to smell out the sinners. The vapor of my anxiety turned into beads of sweat that I wore around my neck, every now and again, losing a gem down my spine. I knew I stank of lies and false religion. Scrutiny fell upon me like the light that spewed from the navy and blood red stained glass window, creating a downtrodden shadow across my doomed soul. The bellow from the choir was a spell that turned everything to slow motion. My darting eyes saw everything turn into maple syrup, as the priest continued his molasses march to my seat. With each antagonizing step I could see my stench grow stronger and go deeper into his nostrils because with each step his face grew deeper into contortion, as the fumes began to infect his pious aura.  His shadow gripped me like hell itself, containing me, overbearing, and set my self esteem on fire. With one motion, he dragged one robust hand out of his robe and pointed to the wooden doors lain with more stained glass filled with light, that gave hope of the outdoors. He needn’t say a single word to communicate his command. I rose quickly, like a fox in the brush, and scurried to my escape. The churches play things caught wind of my gaseous stench, and took a moment out of their piety to further investigate my sin as a ran down the aisle. Their eyes weighed on me like hot branders, each look creating a new burn, which could only catalyst more unpleasant odor. Those wooden doors where forever shrinking from my grasp, contradicting my forward motion. When I finally reached that wretched golden handle I was covered in religious blistering sores of analysis and lies. I wore my sweat necklace all over my body. I wouldn’t feel comfort until the sun settled on my skin and the breeze took rest in my hair. I didn’t look back at my judgment hall, as I hoped to leave it all behind me, not letting any of it escape with me out those giant wooden doors.  My exodus was glorious. Slamming the doors behind me, my stench no longer laid idle in a church pew, but took flight with the breeze. I was once again undetectable  to the nose of the moral.

If Emily Dickinson was writing a suicide letter:

Dear Soft Reality,
Your presence brings me grief and your absence leaves me emptily blissful. You leave my heart to suffer under your cold dagger of truth. I see no purpose to further seek you, only to face my murderer in the bitter realms of my heart that have been so tortured by your harsh precision. To go on would be madness, but perhaps that is what I have become. A madwoman, trapped by lies of true love and wishful thinking. My heart was so filled with the falsity that has become love, and compassion. To completely give yourself to somebody, to find out that their heart already belongs to another fortunate soul, has by far been the down  fall of my sanity. I cannot cry any more, what good would it do. I cannot deny the truth that my love has been poured into an bottomless pitcher…but oh how beautiful that pitcher was. It promised me everything I could dream of, so pristine and clean, signifying all that is good. It was decorated with ornate blossoms that told of new beginnings and hope and it’s spout was graced with delicate greenery that promised fortitude and protection from all that could bring harm. Now all I see is despair. As I took a closer look at its intricate detail, I began to nice the rotting leaves that lay beneath the blossoms, and the tiny thorns that lay prominently on the vinery across the spout. It has been a trap from the beginning, and I am in love with it.
            However, I have poured my soul into that pitcher, and I have nothing left. My heart is parched and crackling, and my love has dried up on the shores of desperation. All that I have loved is gone, and my hope of release lies in a steel barrel of pain that lies in my left hand. It is beautifully real. I can wrap all of my loathing fingers around its cold trigger; it shows me the only truth that has been made clear to me. Death.  I have been yet a tall drink, chilled on ice, numbed to reality, sipped on by the devil himself. Well the devil has had his share and is drunk on my love, leaving me an empty glass, with melted ice. I can feel every pang of you. There is nothing more for me here.
I shall introduce this truth to my mouth, and it will be sweet, like the first time I met his lips, so gentle and unassuming. Only this time, when death is promised, it will not be masked with love and tenderness. My tongue will make love to its silver bullet, as my mind slips into peace and silence from the wolves of my torment.

You are no longer asleep, but there's  no way you can be awake.
Being awake doesn't feel like this.
Being alive doesn't feel this cold.
Your eyes are open.
Your heart is beating.
Your blood is pumping.
But there is nothing to see,
There is no drive to your heart.
It's running on fumes of empty hope.
Your blood is intoxicated with lies.
It no longer flows life.
You are the living dead.
Full of organs.
Capable of physical expression.
Dead of purpose, meaningless in intention.
Here is to you,
The living dead.

I have previously posted a segment of conversations I had with a lover, in which we only spoke to each other in haikus. Believe it or not, the romance continues.

Words are just cop-outs/ My actions will speak volumes/ I hope to keep you.

Your words are weighted/ Your actions will build mountains/ I can't wait to climb.

Beauty is final/ You are borderline divine/ See you in my dreams.

I ******* love you/ I shall  meet you in the stars/ I'll intrude your dreams.

Faith is slight hopes lost/ Until you see the beauty/ Meet me in the sky.

I don't need to hope/ Knowledge is more powerful/ Sleep pretty my darling.

Know I'll keep you safe/ From all that wants you weakened/ We ******* prevail.

As you keep me safe/ I will keep you on your feet/ You won't see failure.

My head is spinning/ There is nothing I can say/ To show you my love.

I don't need your words/ I need you wrapped in my ribs/ Closest to my heart.

As close as atoms/ Dancing with one another/ You and I shall be.

<33

Nothing moves.
My house is quiet.
The universe is in a whirlwind.
My mind has been swept up with the ruble.
Everyone is sleeping, drifting in a parallel existence.
Where are they?
I'm stuck in reality. Alone. In the dark.
But I am not isolated.
Someone must be haunting me.
Someone's parallel existence is seeping into my reality.
I'm not alone.
I'm surrounded by your subconscious thoughts.
They're scary.

I love you.
Deep breath.
I'll hold on to you forever.
Keep blowing.
You are the only one for me darling.
Puff, Puff.
You are the infinite life I cradle in my heart.
BLOW.
Empty promise,
Lost hope,
Meaningless ramble,
Cliché upon naïve hearts.
POP!
What's left?
Air.
Empty, deflated, air.

theres alot of angry people in this world.
mad at life
how their cards were dealt
however lacking the maturity to take responsibility
for how they played their hand.
being ignorant
and blind to your own faults is deadly.
i pray that my eyes
will never lose sight of my flaws.
they're not very appealing,
but are crucial to my growth as a genuine,
happy person.
open your eyes everybody.
your happiness
is sitting in your flaws.