A shower does not melt away my stress,
it is my mask of fake joy
that I wear throughout the day
travelling down the drainpipes instead.

With the streaming water falling upon me,
my tears are not lonely—
but without the warm embrace of this water,
I do not feel real.

I feel your presence shift past me.

To you, I am simply a memory.
A memory that has been tarnished throughout time.
An enemy perhaps.

To me, you are a ghost.
Stuck in time, without the knowledge of this collective reality.
Stuck in a cycle of decline and reassign.

You stand in limbo, observing your own mistakes.
But in your created reality, there are no such mistakes...

A ghost broken down by their choice of travel,
But blames the damage on the road itself.

You can only twist a story so far before the pages tear and split.

In the eyes of another, I find the light I once lost
While searching for any trace of the same brightness in yours.

You are my world, but I am not matched to be yours.
I will embrace you in my memory until the end of time,
But I now must explore a new world, a new landscape.

A world that revolves around the sun,
Not a world that has been plunged into unmapped shade.

You will be saved by another explorer,
One that understands your beauty,
For I am nothing in comparison to your depths of intimacy.

I see myself in you,
but I wish I didn’t...
because you make me feel so blue.

Most depths have yet to be explored.
The ocean,
the mind,
the wider universe.

Your deepest desires may reside
in the unexposed depths...
Find comfort in the unknown;
Find comfort in the darkness.

I sit cold,
Confused
as to how that can be,
because I have you
seated beside me.

But you are
Drained
of the warmth
I once called
home.

With the subtle 𝘱𝘰𝘱 of her bubblegum,
I became numb.
I knew then that I had been trapped underneath
the gentle pressure of her thumb.

A being can only become immortal
if they fall in love with the stars.

The stars will invite you to beam in the night sky
once you have said goodbye to your centre piece.

A bond with the stars is everlasting,
contrasting to the life of the heart beat.

Oxygen is vital for survival,
but I require a special kind;
the breeze that caresses my lips
as you breathe gently—
Silent clips of your love being passed through the current.

Some may say that the greatest treat in life is candy;
the temptation of its sweetness longingly lingering on the tongue,
an unsung reliever.
But temptation itself is the only true greatest treat;
the red heat carried through all senses,
marked as the sweetest sin.

He uses the garden as an escape from reality.
The flowers dance with Him,
smiling even though they are drowning in a pool of despair.
While He thrives in nature,
reality cannot be escaped,
as nature chokes on humanity’s affair with destruction.

Move

           to the
                     beat
        
                                of your own
                                                      soundtr­ack,


Before your ears are no longer moved by the notes.

The righteous white snow
Covers whispered lies.

But soon...

The gore of falsity
Will redden the surface.

Place your hand
Upon the red snow
To reveal truth untold.

Life is like a video game,
The motive is to survive the ultimate level.
You can be the one to cast the flame
And shift the blame,
But in the end —
We’re all faced with the devil.

To fall in love with writing
is to fall deep into an endless cavity.
Ready your stance for your emotions to be barked,
for your fears to be actualised,
for your dreams to be ignited.
Words serve a purpose to grasp the blind hearts roaming this wide escapade of awakeness.

Death blindfolds Its weakest target before It strikes efficiently.
When the gaze can be met without knowledge,
Five senses complete are heightened in an explosive state.
Their ears tick and shatter at the sound of their own helplessness,
Tumbling from their newly rented lips.
The taste of blood becomes evident upon their tongue.
Their feelers reach peak for safety,
But can only grasp thin oxygen.
The smell of It’s cologne chokes their lungs before Its grand attack.
It, the Grim Reaper;
The blindfold is removed from the target.
The command is uttered.
Consuming black is introduced as the new light entirely.
Death draws the dying’s ending breath for decorated delight.

It’s not that I want to be in a box,
It’s about escaping the clocks.
Escaping the constant ticking of time and loss surrounding me.
However wide the universe may be,
I still feel everything catching up with me.
Every element of the earth becoming too much to bare,
I simply sit and stare as time begins to shorten.
But it’s not that I want to be in a box.
In a box, I will miss the scent of flowers and gentle knocks upon the wood of the docks.
Creativity will be lost to the soil,
Imagination bleeding away from the mind within the lifeless.
I long for endless deadlines.
I long for thoughts that carry the light of the stars and not the weight of the moon.
It’s not that I want to be in a box,
It’s about escaping the clocks.

When assigned to nature you must take care of your section. With the top 1% of the top 1% not caring for their section orderly, we must take a stand as bearers of gifts.
Introducing Flower Girl, her mark - bluebells delicately dancing around her eyelids; solution of hydration loosely hanging from her eyelashes. Protector of the bluebells.
Spring, Summer... a jolly state following suit as she beams to the sun above, the coloured flowers upon her skin basking in the energy radiated.
Autumn, Winter... the sun doesn’t appear as often, energy is lost and not just for the bluebell companions. Flower Girl doesn’t reach towards the slithers of sunlight anymore. Blue turns to brown, happiness turns to hopelessness. Solution of hydration sacrificed to the angry clouds and viciously spat back out against the soil.
Introducing River Boy, his mark - fresh, cold fingertips, water droplets as clear as glass stored within his veins. Protector of water, protector of Flower Girl.
A brisk touch to her cheek, their eyes meet. Brown turns to blue, hopelessness turns to happiness. Solution of hydration replaced upon her eyelashes, preserved water finally fulfilling its purpose.
When assigned to nature you must take care of your section. A section for a section, an act of caring kindness for a revived life. Bluebells may only bloom with the helping of water.

My home is not a physical place,
My home is a person that I chase.
In you I trust,
With you I feel comfortable,
With you vulnerability doesn’t exist.
If home is where the heart may be,
then in your hands my heart is placed.

A twitch of my head and the dead will crawl.
The dead will crawl with a scratching so intense they will leave marks upon my mind.
With the marks hard to remove, I twitch my head once more and awake the dead’s ancestors.
One by one they eat the flesh of the living within me, every aspect of life and trace of goodwill never evident after their presence.
The eyes of the dead so dark, my own eyes swell with the blackness of every mark they have ever left.
With one final twitch of my head I am consumed; under the power of the dead that are now living within me.
No wrong doings were made on my behalf yet the dead take over and find solace within the living thoughts I once possessed.

Space is peaceful.
In space you can float amongst unknown stars.
But, in space, you stand as the open-minded Mars as I, however, caress the dust that are the no longer shining stars.
As another star bursts, so does a small fragment of me.
Though, little by little I wonder closer to your atmosphere.
Eventually, your atmosphere envelopes me.
An attraction develops and now I stand proudly beside the open-minded Mars.
I stand with a purpose and with every fragment lost, now found.
I now shadow you, as the open-minded Deimos; trapped in the warm embrace of your atmosphere.