guillotine of dried tree pulp,
with eloquent insults adorned,
beheading reputations one by one,
in a single sharp-written bite.

when the pen-wielding executioner drops the rope,

even the mighty end in baskets

at the hand of paper blades.

you are a stranger,
my vessel.

i see you,
stranger,
in the mirror.

and i am another,
taken up residence
in your psyche.

stranger of mine,
i stir in your skull.

delicate moths wish
to kiss
  your oxygen-eating fingers,
   as you gently consume
    sun-dried limbs
     of monster-trees.

     your dear children,
    born of the plant flesh
  you disintegrate,
dance on the whistling breeze.

should one of your young
  dare to tiptoe
   on brittle blades
    of winter-deceased grass,
     she will grow
      more impressively
       than you,
        her mother.

    she will indulge
   in tender gluttony,
  softly swallowing whole
the homes
of woodland denizens.

conceived of woodpecker houses,
  her own daughters
   enter the world,
    spread their mother's warmth,
     just as your sweet baby
      did with yours.

and forever you burn.

She's just like a rose,
with beauty that pales all others.
Her name, everyone knows,
Her praise, everyone utters.

with beauty that pales all others,
thorns hidden under the leaves.
Her praise, everyone utters,
a danger no one perceives.

thorns hidden under the leaves,
Her influence only spreads.
a danger no one perceives,
filling everyone's heads.

Her influence only spreads,
she waits like a beast in repose.
filling everyone’s heads,
she’s just like a rose.

late at night
i lie awake
resting in your tender embrace.

you hold me tight,
your warmth
providing silent consolation.

you're a great guy,
a little broken,
but that doesn't make me care
for you any less.

i'm fixated on you,
bringing you
into every possible aspect
of my life.

you distract me,
fill my thoughts,
hold my mind in your hands.

i would be your boy,
give you all my heart has to give,
and be there for you,
like you're there for me.

if only you were real.

from ambiguity is insight born.
minds, both clever and not,
all conceive many a thought.

in attempt to interpret,
ideas are set into motion,
building a creative notion.

through presence of equivocation,
wit is given liberty

my heart is tucked away
under the floorboards
in the back of your brain.

out of sight,
out of mind.

because you couldn't look me in the eye.

but i still haunt you,
don't i?

do you hear me?
does the sound of me
remind you?
does the guilt follow you?

am I driving you insane?
do i make you want to scream?

are you going to confess your sin?

will you tell anyone of the crime
you know you committed?

is my heart beating loud enough
for you to peel back the floorboards once more,
and find the pieces of me,
torn apart by you?

to be, or not to be.
the question that plagued the noble Hamlet,
so plagues me now.
I care not for the for the art
with which he speaks,
yet his core idea rings true.
laying myself to rest,
sleeping,
perchance to dream.
and in that dream of death,
i might escape the nightmare of life.
this seems the favourable route.
but...
"seeming" is the key.
is it merely a shining illusion,
this relief?
for in the passing of life
by one's own hand,
he only passes his griefs
to loved ones.
is my relief
worth the pain
it would cause?

freckle-speckle face,
marks like delicate lightning
on stomach and thighs,
soft form like Aphrodite.

broad, sturdy bones
wrapped in imperfection.
with flaws like gems,
you shine the brightest.