I feel forgotten.

My eyes skimmed through a dozen forget-me-nots,
and forgot them,
their blueness, their scent,
and how they looked under the night sky,
upon looking into your eyes.

I was a lost sail in the stormy grey seas
and had an unfortunate case of water phobia
I knew I was still,
but the waves rocked me back and forth.
What I would give to hear my name fall from
your lips once more...

But it was forgotten.

Now I know how the dozen forget-me-nots felt
when the candles burned out and
they screamed for a sound.
I never heard.
Now, you've neglected the strangled screams from
my throat, and the crimson words
hanging from my lips.

I am forgotten.©

Mosaic pieces that fit like fingers to palms,
a patchwork of checkered lines,
criss-crossing strings upon wood screamed in agony
when absorbing moonlight
as I sat under a hanging tree
and strummed the strings of my guitar
the moonlight was burned by candle strips
and bare words spoken that night.©

soft, whispering red rose from his bed
his eyes shot open, clearly filled with dread,
he caught up those autumn breezes in his hair
and green fields in his eyes
my hands spun strings of nightmares straight through the sky
harsh sunlight.
they made him stand at the top off a cliff
forgetting his fear of heights
you can't expect him to awake from a nightmare
when it is just reality taking another life.©

Her lips were bolted shut
the rusting lock, black and brown
broken with cracks lining up the front.

Words strewn across the page
from her fingertips
as she filled her pen with blood
from the sink.

Her calloused hands rubbing against
one another, hoping to receive warmth
instead of the coldness that surrounded her.

Unlike the rest, she had none to say
and plenty to write
with a voice that hopes for a smile in the day
and a red knife at night.

Taking a needle and thread,
she sow her lips in colours of blue, black
and red
and watched the way the coloured lines
intertwined with each other
unlike the vintage lock before them
while her gaze fell upon the eyes watching her,
situated in a grey land.©

the blue lines never seemed
to fade
from my wrists
like strands of ice from the
Atlantic ocean's
tides
I can't seem to rub them away.©

bruises on the snow
pink, blue, purple, black
wouldn't it be more beautiful if paint was
splattered on white glass?
torn pieces of paper
that fell
on shards of ice,
glistening pink under the
red moon tonight
my limbs creaked, sighed
like rusting gates up on a steep hill
as the trees shed their leaves
and purple bruises take their place
with sharp knives and a glint in their eyes.