The light bulbs burst when you walked in,

And the sparks ignited my skin.

The fire was still burning long after you were gone,

Until I was charred to the bone.

I recall how you clawed at the meat,

Right above where my heart beat.

Your red eyes glowed in glee,

Until I could no longer see,

Blinded by the one thing

That I thought only you could bring.

Then I heard the snipping,

As you cut the strings

And began humming to my screams.

A harmony of two extremes.

When the flood lights shone through,

There was no more you;

Only a permanent deformity

And ripped arteries.

Four hours of sleep,
Laughter and tears,
Philosophy with hidden fears,
And shaky hands
From too many coffee sips;
How else do I describe your
Invincible aura?

Are there really any words
To explain the floral imprint
That springs to life
With every thought of you
In my muddied mind?

Am I worthy of that otherworldly smile;
The one that lingers on your full lips
For longer than it takes to glimpse possibility,
Just so you can see its results
In the eyes of both friends and enemies?

I swear there is mercury
In your glossy eyes-
And I think I’ve reworded it a thousand times,
But they will always be
A poisonous brilliance of dual deadliness
That my demons cannot help but admire.

And amidst all the beauty,
There is glorious ugliness
Which I cherish in these deteriorating hemispheres of mine-
I always did envy the soft pillows beneath your eyes,
And how even your blemishes looked to me like patches of light.

Every fleeting thought of you
Is a glowing orb of searing vitality-
Like lightning flashes of opportunity
And sometimes
The only sparks that keeps me crawling
Through this never-ending tunnel of suffering.
But most of all, it is more, much more
Than anyone could ever deserve.

To simply call you Human would be an understatement;
In your case, I believe,
Masterpiece is a fitting supplement.

being suicidal is like having a few hundred soul eaters compacted into the small space between your brain and your skull, and having them try to **** the life out of you, and for some reason you resist. it's like a game of push and pull, but it's one of you against a whole group of them. and you continue to resist, each day for three hundred and sixty five days over and over again until the years can no longer be counted on one hand and you come to the point where you just realise that there really isnt anymore soul left to defend and then you have to decide whether to continue to resist just for the sake of living, even if it's as an empty shell, or if you should finally give in for a taste of unpromised freedom.

Today is a poetry day,
She told herself.

People were dying,
Hopeless babies were being born,
And she was bleeding.
Yet there was a
Momentary
Calm
Inside the ever-raging storm.

Eyes gazing lovingly at
A wall,
She smiled and bowed her thanks
To quiet voices that
Sounded like
They had dimpled cheeks
And glory-glazed eyes
As they approved her thoughts.

She liked to think of
Synaesthesia as she typed
Away the
Colours
Of the words
That swam around in their
Polluted glass tank.

Today felt like a poetry day,
She said out loud.

Everything was uneven,
Someone somewhere was drowning to sleep,
And she was oh so mentally ill.
Yet there was
A tinge of
Comfort
In the darkness.

Her body was glowing
With toxicity,
And she was
Shaking from the
Cold
She couldn’t feel,
As soundless lullabies
Played in her mind and
Notes
She couldn’t read
Danced before her eyes.

She was crazy,
Everything was always a maybe,
Tomorrow was nowhere,
But, Ah…
Today
Today was poetry.