2 days
Of internal despair,
My lungs seemed to
Have forgotten what it is
To breathe.

My body isn't mine anymore,
I'm stuck in it,
My mind racing with thoughts
Of the night you tried
To make me yours.

Never have I been able to
Truly overwhelm
Over songs that narrate
Stories I never thought
I'd have to tell.

My bed never felt so empty,
I've never felt so hopeless
Over humanity.

So when I sit and see
The horizon,
It's as if the waves
Wash away the lies within.
When the below temperature water
Washes over my feet,
It's in those few seconds
That I begin to feel like me.

Me.

The one who kept hope
Despite her father's constant "no."
The one with veins profound in color
And in the words that seep out of them.

My second day of
Internal despair,
And as I waked upon pink sea **** so rare,
I inhaled salt water...
And for the first time in days,
My lungs remember air.

we frantic
for secretive places

a cave inlet, dim fire,
where we could claw
each other to pieces

like animals
love a distant scent,

all sweet conversation
make hunting spears
no word is meant

who preys whom
what brings us here

primitive echoes
assail our skins
habitual betrayers

ours, yours, bodies  
some lurking thirst

of centuries digs its
claws into flesh
like animals

love a distant scent...

i watch her lips move as she speaks
the symmetry of her face
stained glass eyes with cheeks of rose
a complexion as flawless as a fresh spring day
my heart is broken with every word she speaks.
for i feel my imperfections resounding more clearly in her beautiful frame
than i ever could in a mirror.
legs longer than any lie of self-love that i could ever spin
her waist narrow, molded into galaxies that boys will dream of grasping.


if she is spring, than i am the middle of february.
my skin is clear the way that the sky is green
my figure an ominous cloud of a long winter
lackluster, abrasive
daring those who look upon it to find themselves immediately disinterested

for i hold no fear for the oblivion of darkness
would march into the depths of the sea without glancing back
pretty girls are my sole fear
for i know that by the end of the day
you will look to her and, much like myself, not find a single flaw in her effortless effervescence,
and i will go by without so much as a passing glance.

I'm suffering from a combination
Of boredom and anticipation
Literary constipation
Messing up my "mind's elation"

I need some kind of deviation
To move my thoughts out of station
A moving occasion
To end my dull procrastination

Drawing from an empty to barrel
And drowning in my sorrows