She sings the blues,
yet her tone is golden,
and sounds as sweet and hard
as newly ripened strawberries.

Surrounded by obscurity without gloom:
the depths of calignosity suffocate every speck in ebony ink.
Yet, every molecule breathes with ease.

It is the crushing, bewitching hour of eternity in nightfall.
A sigh exhaled is impassively terminated by the midnight dusk;
sound is silent here.

Emptiness gapes as the leviathan's gob
thick with gelatinous mucus,
vast, however jailing:
closed and unknown to the living universe.

The saliva sparks in a moment, as a release of static charge,
even though no solid is sensed, never-mind two touching
loaded with electric friction.

And then again, as a sparkler of summer's independence
now holding for just more than a whim.
An explosion.

Flecks of bright stains scattered within the physical aura breeze past;
they ripple like wave crests under a kaleidoscope moon.
Colors arc in the resistant free current: endless lightning.

The vacuum is an overpopulated city
of which the blind could never take census
and the ignorant believe to be mute.

Visual speech fills the void of sound.
It is the starlight of a body.

Beside a dusty fan droops languid veins
whose movement barely churns up tarnished grime,
as lazy sun exudes through poisoned panes
injected with the film of listless time.

A gentle sigh is exhaled without will
for emptiness of long forgotten mind.
Eyes shudder closed to desolation's shrill
of conscious much too free and so, confined.

Revolting spittle dribbles down a chin
with absolutely nothing left to do.
To entertain and keep from going thin
you spy on friends who in turn spy on you.

Alas! For boredom is the finite trait
of great mankind's insufferable fate.

I perch distantly
not as a stalking panther shrouded in night
but in exile
society is welcoming as I chose my solitude
internally enforced diaspora

I claimed it was to marvel the awful expanse
a view of unabridged artistry
authentic beauty
however here
truth's firm grasp scrambles for a grip
but fingers could only ever scrape a void

I gazed across a projection
my utopia
a wish upon a whim

I walk the world with starlight in my eyes
to blind myself from the otherwise unavoidable darkness

I stride not at the center of galaxies
but in the emptiness of space forgotten
knowing resolution is inevitable
and I will either become a part of it
or its mirror

I will be whipped from the universe
an absent thought
lost in tumbling amnesia

To put it quite simply; it hurts.

a dire desire
to flee
to wheel the spine around
and stumble in the opposing direction
quit, split, fly
the physical embodiment of escapism

a towering tsunami
there are only three directions to go:
to face
to exile
to be crushed a statue

a pinched atom
compressed in a chronograph
has a beach still to pour
during here and after now

a glinting ax
to smash the glass
easy

a tug
unlike a leash on a hound's leather collar
great draft horses quarter the prisoner
meat hooks pierce intestines
dismemberment
at its finest

overwhelmed
i run

He is an
erroneous man
with a soul splotched
in every color
whose death
displays
his ultimate
moral
perfection.

Every brush is a first as a spark to a fire;
though the ashes still fall from limb and leaf,
each blaze sizzles an original melody:
forever unique and soulfully sole.

A delicate comfort envelopes me,
wreathing my pieces with a gentle autumn breeze,
mending me whole when I was never broken.

Her ambiance dances as rays of shattered moonlight,
slipping beneath a sky of the arctic dawn.
She gathers my fragments,
even when they had never been chipped away.

I lay unprotected, yet entirely safe.

She bends until the space separating us is airless with tender yearning.
I taste a thin sea-foam of maple sugar.
Dyspnoea remains fluid in our slumberous desire.

When I close my eyes, submitting to the quiet rush,
I am welcomed by an island universe.
Stardust spirals as the cosmos beams above our heads.

A sylvan petrichor swirls about the fall
as I am consumed with pure euphoria.

She is tired and torn,
battered and broken,
and longs
for nothing
and no one.

There is a difference between knowing and understanding.
You know how I feel because I have told you;
I explain my emotions
and you chose to listen.
I understand how you feel because I live it.
You do not tell me,
but I understand
exactly
the emotions
that course through your
body and mind and soul.

I never chose this.
And I never wanted it.

When I tell people I am an empathic
they mostly roll their eyes.
They have no idea what I am talking about,
until I touch their skin
and relay
every emotion
of their
whole
lives.

Then they call me freak.

But I cannot help it.
Anything that feels pain I feel pain for.

When your teeth sparkle in laughter's sunlight
mine twinkle under the changing moon.
When your skin turns searing red with rage
mine glows white hot as a smith's hammer.
When your lungs burn from submerged depression
mine are right there
waiting
to release their final breathe.

There are those
who turn and marvel
like I am some otherworldly being
meant to be shoved in a glass cage
and goggled at in a zoo.
They tell me it is a gift to understand.
To that I say:
this world is no utopia.
How would you like to see every flaw?
How would you like to drown in the ocean of tears?
How would you like to experience your skin raw from all the fury?
How would you like feel the ragged edges of scars
raised as far as they were cut
with every curious brush of your fingertips?
You wouldn't.
This is no gift
unless from Hell.

In my lifetime
I have tried to make it
so the world doesn't hurt
so that I don't hurt.
Now I know;
I can't.

I can't whip the tears from each child's soft chin.
I can't massage the ice from each man's shriveled heart.
I can't dowse the flames from each woman's fiery tongue.
I can't.

The only thing I can do
is change my position within this world
in an attempt
to heal my scars.

And I am not sure which soothes my pain more:
surrounding myself
with those from whom I receive the most
sorrow and anger and dread
because they
understand me;
they can help,
or
engulfing myself
within the entourage of those who always smile:
to drown out all the pain
and push the world aside.

I am a child of truth
one not blinded by belief or whim
my vision is luminous with veracity
I am a daughter of science
the proven

there is pride in this
the authenticity of my perception
I see the world in all colors
not the black and white of sin and virtue

I judge the world on the confirmed and validated
my value is in the clarity of possibilities
and the assessment of the affirmed

but for however meritorious I may grant this view to be
is such sight of pure moral?

it burdens to recognize I am the only control in my world
there are none in my eyes with ultimate or immortal reign
the only fate I view is individual and collective ends

I wish I could have faith
perhaps the pain would ease
at the thought of another with power in control
knowing my actions are not my work
but the results of a larger set of hands

but how hideous is it of me to say such filth
to long to believe
but be supposedly unable to feel gods
I consider it disrespectful to those who do

so I keep to my facts
my deafening, blinding, muting visual certainties

but what if I am wrong?
after all, there are more colors in the universe
than those of which we see

I know I always do it;
I shove people away.
I bury myself alone to protect them
because I do not want them to hurt
by revealing my own pain.

It has come to the point
where I am so concerned, so fearful,
at the prospect of being a burden
that I am blind to a crucial fact;

the most painful thing
I have ever endured
was my best friend
pushing me aside
and
shoving me away,

because she thought
she weighed me down.

And now I am realizing
solitary silence and defensive deceit
cause more agony to a friend
than any volcanic mountain range
of searing, fiery truths
could ever reap.

a sylvan safety
doomed to die
so
left alone
it wonders why

corrupted carcass
melts to mush
as
choking chains
burn the brush

fearsome flames
lick at lies
and
rotten roots
fend off flies

blackened bark
torn in two
by
scent of smoke
of beastly brew

sinful scandal
heinous hate
cause
worlds to wander
and face their fate

but you reduce me to feeling.

For what reason do I bare these arms
if their flick does not fluster
and their embrace does not ease

For what reason do I glance with these eyes
if their concern does not comfort
and their ghost does not give

For what reason do I speak from these lips
if their sweetness does not soften
and their cool does not calm

If my touch leaves no fingerprints
when I press skin to the world
then what is the purpose of my effort?

Or perhaps I do leave marks
a stinging slap
a gouging gaze
a ravenous rip

Then my resolve is of hellish terms
and I am consumed by demons

She embodies a
yellow-backed salamander,
only violet.

Her eyes shine like undisturbed dew drops
hovering at the gentle fingertips of young moss
on the northern bark of a white cedar tree
under a lazy morning sun.

Spear points of obsidian pierce the disc:
banished from the core of a volcano
scorched by a molten heart
and choking on onyx soot.

The dawn warmth filters through,
carried by a serene and wafting breeze.
It illuminates the pleasant, tickling greenery,
bringing to light the depth of her irises.

Fire belches from the mountain's stomach,
and the flame ignites a gleam.
Her gemstone eyes shine
as though the embers have been captured within.

At the base, there is the earth:
firm and dark and cool.
Interlocking underbrush layers fawn with chestnut
overtaken but not undermined by powerful streaking tree trunks.

The rim is built of force and rumbles with strength.
A cast of bronze is seething and glowing.
Her intensity blazes as sun spots
deep within ancient amber.

She is as her eyes are
an indigo inferno:
seldom
and
elegantly alive.

I once thought big words
held more depth
than small ones.
Now I know they just cause
macro-cosmic misinterpretations.

Even as I ride mounted high on your hips
arching and arcing my spine like an endless surge of foaming breakers
as my waist rolls beneath your shaking fingertips

Even as a moan slips from your shivering lips
and the mussels surrounding your throat contract with delight
as a gasp rushes forward, rippling in the aura surrounding you

Even as I take control
and your limp and helpless body sprawls beneath me
begging for more

I am selfish

Because it is not for your pleasure why I prowl this night
but your reactions
I only live to see your eyes turn to marble
and your mind go blank behind your lustful gaze

He was the doctor that would destroy anything to claim he had healed it.

you are too young
to hear such things
yet they spew from my mouth
as i spit poisoned blood
snatched from my lungs and ripped from others' throats

i reek of acid
it breaks me to know it tears through you
slicing deeper than the silver blade i use
to carve myself to a shape i think might be better
though you would never admit the pain
at least, not to me

i say you should abandon me
you say i have no right to claim order or jade
and i'm not
i just know the truthful why
are you blind or do you refuse to see?

i am the nightmare
the fear that flares in the back of minds
the shadow haunting every eye
when it retreats to safety from the misery and torture of the world

i am
the pain that blinds
the blood that chokes
and
the breath that was never exhaled

i need you to understand
to see the horror i embody
so you know to run
so i can't hurt you
so i can't hurt me

clawing at shards of shattered knives
i desperately try to force your sight

yet i cannot keep pushing all this at you
all of me as myself
this ******* monster
i know i am

to save you
there truly are
quite few options

a rope from which I dangle
drifting gently in a breeze
as the rash about my tender throat
oozes red to my bare knees

a vial poison orange
thrown across my bedroom floor
sea foam rests on greying lips
no breath rattles anymore

a hole blasted through my brain
great chunks of memoirs thrown aside
lever still in crimson hand
I could only ever wrote "I tried"

a woven necklace
a coral bottle
a silver pebble
all thrown full throttle

I can only hope that this
will save you from demise
but nothing can save me
from the hungry, rotten flies

cardinal
the omnipresence of a forest
a melody

blush
the laughter of a child
a spirit

flame
the rage of a star
a supernova

wine
the ground of a glass
a mainstay

glow
the warmth of a firefly
a comfort

crimson
the gore of a war
a fighter

coral
the haven of a lionfish
a protector

rose
the circlet of a nymph
a friend

grey
the wish of a girl
a mask

to hide
the truth of an eye
a magnificence

I move forward to ignore the past
I learned from history in my mind
I did not want to express yesterdays

I ask you
I plead with you
don’t taint this ground
I know the past is colored scarlet
and you will drench the floor in your blood

I am fragile, but you break like time

I climb, but now look to this pit
I am the pit of a pit on the ground, and you wander

I step once
then step again
but it is you who should watch your feet
because I am an orchard
an orchard of mines

It isn't sadness;
that is the biggest misconception.
People treat it like an emotion infecting a blue day,
labeling slightly soaked cheeks as this ailment of the mind.
The term is cracked like a whip in stinging insult:
weak, powerless, loser, outcast.

It is feeling a lack of feeling,
where one exists in a mental state of wanting to be anything but lethargic
yet finding nothing worthwhile inside
with which to take action:
no talent, no skill, no interest.

It is not only not believing one has any energy
but seeing nothing to which to give it,
in yourself, in others, in the world.

It is severe despondency and dejection,
consuming worlds like oozing, viscose magma
dribbling uncontrollably as burning ***** from the mountain's fiery mouth
burping filthily as is sludges onward.

It isn't sorrow, or misery, or despair.

It is inadequacy,
an ebb of interest in life,
with a sliver of interest to take it.

our time in this universe
is ridden with a luminous oddity
for light is a rarity
in the biorhythm of the macrocosm

the normality is jet
nothing
inky, obsidian slate

such liquid void drips laboriously
completely free from ejecting effort
like beads of pine sap among evergreen needles
seeping in a slowed, oozing, endless rush
at gravity's inevitable, gentle tug

eventually it will consume the cosmos
like maple syrup poured atop a whole-grain waffle
primarily, the charcoal sweetness fills
the quite purposeful lack of solidified batter
but then greedily begins to swallow the flaky bread

it bleeds
spurting with immense weight and impossible magnitude
until each limb dissolves
drifting away in the acidic salt of onyx crimson

what would I see at this inevitable state?

I am in a cave
open to the same air as the peaks of mountains
and it is so dark
I see more color with my eyes closed

my vision feigns my mind
I almost believe the expected:
the twirling endless cluster of shining cream
spiraling above my head

When the normal is expected and consumed with boredom,
and the highs pass along unnoticed because they are so humanly desired,
and the lows are too painful to survive through, let alone move on from,
who has the right to ask me to continue trying to live?

Who on this Earth possesses any righteous ability
to command me to survive?
No one.
And yet, I am powerless to stop them.

cup of poison rage
pint of verdant, bleeding tears
and pinch of fever

now look at what you've done
such a monster I've become

-why d'you love me; I'm a freak?
-well, I prefer the term unique