I do not yearn for love.
Not romance, nor friendship.
I struggle in this passive isolation
yet I do not seem to yearn.

I am empty in that context.
Never feeling full, nor have I ever before.
I claw and cut and scream for simple peace
yet I seem to be punished with restlessness.

Maybe the peace is found within
regaining a sense of yearning.
Maybe the peace is only found within
the final ‘death’ do us part.

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.

Your heart is simply your home.
It is your safe place.
Family consists of the things living in that ticker;
it consists of the things you hold close in those chambers.

‘You can choose your friends but not your family,’
I am told by my parent who has caused me the most harm alone...
but with the force of the wind I push against those groans.

The roots of my family tree do not match past generations.
The roots connect to my heart and mine only;
the veins that decorate the walls of my home.

So I bid you goodnight now a stranger to me,
for I am finally free to be with my true family —
I am safe here with my created bloodline,
living happily in this little heart of mine.

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

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.

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.

I’m grateful for the
calm winds of stoicism
exhaling from you.

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.

I’m interested in a free trial
to the south of soil.

Just a free trial, you see...

Resting for a while in the roots
To avoid such crushing daily disputes.

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.

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.

The tedious graveyard shift comes around again,
The ghosts and ghouls of my past clocking in.
We meet each other at the silver gate;
We greet each other with the same stare each night.
I wonder if some will stay overtime with me under this moon,
Or if we can led our own paths once more come morning.

Move

           to the
                     beat
        
                                of your own
                                                      soundtr­ack,


Before your ears are no longer moved by the notes.

her fingertips leave
velvet kisses
across his skin,
wiping the tears
that escape
with her palms.

nothing can compare
to such
a lover’s material.

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.

I imagine that the wind flowing through my hair
is your hand weaving through the strands,
as I stand
in the midnight air...

I imagine that,
alone in the place where I used to hold you close
as my tears begin to enclose me
in the midnight air...

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.

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.

to be loved
and to love
is to wilt and decay.
in a positive or negative sense —
that I am not so sure,
just take it as you may.

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.

which is more fragile —
the mind, or the brain?

I step out into the streets,
Ready to mimic the actions of those I’ve learnt from.

I do not understand the gleeful tones and beats
So I adapt another one’s joyful flow.

But I wonder how far this fake peace
Stretches across the land of our one and all.

Am I mimicking the mask of another mime?
I worry for the number who are stuck in a rhyme...

monotone voices hold
an element that glistens
in the light
of worldly havoc.
peace can be found
when one listens
to the simple
black and white.