A distant melody hums softly, sweetly in my head
Chords like flowers on an ocean's wave
A tune will put weary thoughts to rest
But will leave lingering in nothing left

Memories captured in restless frames
Wavering under strings and plains
Lightning cries a holistic mess
Melancholia rains the same

But in this song carries shadow
A harmony of lilacs and ravens flow
A bird swings softly, sweetly save
An eternal clock sorrow ticking slow

So the ocean's wave mellows under red
When light fades and twilight grows
La música de la vida draws its thread
Humming softly, sweetly until death

His voice is full of money. A masculine imitation of Daisy Buchanan, raised by southern rich folk who once might've migrated from somewhere up north. He was tall and fair, sophisticated but still youthful in the shadows of his speech. He appeared god-like, a prince heir to the throne of a cloud's eternity, towering over you like riches in the sky, full of untouchable beauty, just out of reach.

A sudden rush
A stone drops into the water
The first lighting strikes
A bud begins to open
A drop of rain bends the leaf
The last red on the horizon
A cloud turns a wisp
A wind sweeps the ground
The moon disappears.
The burn in my throat
The ash on your tongue
The first drop of cornering water
The last hesitated sigh
The last hello
The first goodbye
Day by day
Night by night
Still I fall
Still I rise

He has a tall stature, a muscular build, and holds a posture like a Greek god. His shoulders and jaw both perfectly squared. He has a profile that would inspire Michelangelo. A nose sculpted from clay, his eyes of arble, which reflect an ocean's light. A sharp-shaven chin and waves of silk on his head. Messy curls fall in place with a painter's still perfection, enframing complementary angles of his cheekbones. His gaze is gentle, but crystal. Eyes the color of teal water rising up on the shore. There is no doubt he was crafted in Heaven, but why does an Angel like him rest on such wretched ground.

Only ever in dreams do I wrap my arms around you.

I find myself scared of falling in love, of craving you every second of every day, of needing you, of becoming addicted to you. I am scared of missing you more than I can handle, of losing you, and losing myself in you.

This is the year I said "I love you" with blood between my teeth.
The same year I wrote more poetry than I could swallow, all in an attempt to sort chaotic thoughts.
I cut my hair without notice, purposefully uneven, "a cry for help."
I drank my own words to full up all the "okays" and empty "goodbyes."
This is the year I lost too much sleep, and my hands began to look like they belonged to someone else.
The stars glued to my ceiling faded out, and I brought a fake smile to a gun fight.
I've got some nervous habits but you are by far the worst one.

You painted daisies on my wrists and planted roses inside each ribcage and then you told me that you don't like flowers because they die too fast.

You are an ocean but secrets don't float and I had to drown to get to your soul, but you didn't save me when I tired and forgot how to swim and now my lungs are burning and my lips are too blue to say that I miss you

I wanted you from the second I saw you and so many people will think that's sweet but honestly I don't know how much longer I can live in the dust kicked up by your cold feet

***** burns my throat but your name haunts my head so I would rather blackout with a promising hangover than stare blankly at my hands trying to forget what it was like to touch you.

Sometimes, I wake up at four in the morning and still taste smoke in the back of my throat. I swear to god, you're still burning somewhere inside me.

Time travels in our heads
As restless winds about
Dangerous thoughts wither within
As breezes calm without

In an airplane on a rainy Tuesday night, you were sitting next to me
I was wearing ripped up tights and stolen jewelry
You took my hand and leaned into me, I saw a lady walk by
She had dark lipstick and green smokey eyes
She was walking fast with her high heeled shoes, slipping off a ring
She threw it down and I heard her say, "I'll never miss a thing."
"Ladies and gentlemen, fasten your seats,"
I run my fingers through your hair, blonde, silk, and soft
I hear the boy behind me, breathing hard, trembling knees
I said "Honey, lean back and close your eyes, listen to the machine sing."
You were falling asleep, I watched the city streets diminish as we flew into the darkening sky and mesmerizing lights
The city was my kingdom and the clouds were my throne
I can be your queen, we'll rule heaven till it falls
Soaring grey machines and ocean's eyes, to the gods' great home
Open up the gates and you can save us all
Listen to the machines sing
The sky will set you free

Sometimes when the moon hangs low in the sky,
I am reminded of a night between you and I
The clouds were smoke and she caused the flame
When you brushed my cheek and whispered my name
I played with your hair as you stared in my eyes
You told me a secret for the very first time
I'll never forget, walking through the trees,
You kissed me so gently on that lovely Hallow's Eve

He had eyes that held the wonders of the world.
Green for the forests, in which he loved to lay.
The deeper you go, the darker it stays.
Green for the hanging gardens, his eyes hung me.
Babylonian treasures that caught me off my feet.
Brown for the pyramids, canyons, and statues of gold.
Like a god he walks and sits on his self-created throne.
Blue for the rivers, mountains, and lakes.
He'd travel the world by plane, boat, and fate.
Blue for the Victoria Falls, the smoke that thunders,
and just like my name, I dragged him under.

Staring at the full moon thinking of a time when our love was new, tender hugs and shy kisses, wide awake dreaming of you.
Staring at the half-lit moon, I surrendered my heart too soon, knowing it was destined to lose, nothing could hold me back from you.
Staring at the quarter moon, I'm thinking of a day back in June, you sung to me in off-key tunes, I whispered back in beats of two.
Staring at the blackened moon, I'm wide awake remembering you, with saddened eyes and guilty lies, my tongue is blue and so are you.

I imagine her lips as they brush mine, impulses running down my spine.
My hands on her hips wrapping around her back in that faded denim jacket she adored.
Memories of her kissing my neck
When we said goodbye, I didn't want to leave you, I said "baby, please don't let me hurt you."
You hugged me so tight in this foreign dream

She is a flower
The most beautiful daisy in a meadow miles long
She caught my eye and we were floating through the sky over mountains of Mexico, covered with silver and gems but I only adored her
Then we said goodbye
I walked on the plane with a sorrowful face knowing it wouldn't be for a long while that I'd touch her skin again, so I memorized the sweet green veins on the back of her hands, and I loved her. Oh my god, I loved her.
When we said goodbye, I didn't want to leave you, I thought, "baby, please don't let me hurt you."
You hugged me so tight, and I remember those kisses on my neck the night before.
I turned away and I'll never forget this foreign dream.

She was a dream. A five day, Californian sunset dream, with gold hair and oceanic eyes. She was light, she was grace, she was beauty. She was the sun, and I, the moon. And together we wore an eclipse. We had what people spend their lives waiting for. The stars shined for us alone. Our love was God.
But everyone knows, the sun and moon cannot stay together forever.

8:40
She was a daisy in a blooming field, a lonely star in the milky way. Lost in translation among a crowd, screaming out without a sound.
9:23
She wore the sweetest smile, a smile that could turn your sorrows upside down. A laugh that could send away your fears. A hug that could warm the darkest parts of your soul.
9:28
She wrote like the world was ending, like the sky was falling and she aspired to capture every detail of every glimpse, destructive and beautiful, she caught it all.
10:03
I dreamt of laughing with her. We  were laughing about childhood stories over ice cream and cherries in the park. We met a d dog with two different colored eyes, complimentary opposites. One dark and one of light and joy, like me and her. She was playing with him while I was staring at her. It was innocent. We talked and talked but all I remember was laughing. And I was laughing with her.
12:37
I met a girl of smiles and daisies
Pixies and poems and poetic sayings
I met an angel who lit up the room
Light from the other side of the moon

With the moon I change night in and out continuously through cycles of light and darkness, through tides high and low. I alternate between every shade in between but never purely black or white. I am flawed, and I am god. I am hidden, but I radiate.

I am melancholic like the colors of the sun's last kiss in the sky.
I am manic like the moon's oceanic replies.

a familiar melancholy slowly fills my lungs, puncturing each lonesome rib until it permeates my entire physical being. a disease embedded into my DNA, flowing through my veins where the blood reaches my brain through a crooked spine and wellness becomes obsolete

by midnight's light I turn to thee
who knows of dark eternally
and in her name one might find
a secret love in which to confide

Walking into first period I am a 12-year-old girl again,
Confidence turned into racing heartbeats and jumbled words.
Imaginary conversations fill my head with possibilities but nothing ever seems to escape my lips but a timid smile.
I trash my spearmint gum and begin walking back to my seat, the teacher has only just begun talking.
I take three steps before daring to look up,
by the fourth I see blue out of my peripheral...
You are looking at me.
The fifth step, I am looking at you.
And for the entirety of that second all the other faces of the room blurred and I swear the history lesson took a pause for the present and there was solely that simple look to be shared.
A look I have found to be all too familiar but yet it never comes enough to be able to fully decipher it.
It is a look of timid desire.
It is a look of fire and ice, of two elements of opposite worlds colliding.
It is a look of earth and water.
A sly romance which everyone sees but no one knows.
Water hits the shore and I am chocolate melting, I am soil eroding.
I am the tree's branches bending under the misty wind.
I am the earthquake that causes the hurricane, the tsunami.
Yet you are calm like the tranquil sea.
Your eyes the color of the shallow water on a southern beach just before the break of a gentle wave at shore in the first hour of sunrise.
I think of you, and there are butterflies.
I look at you, and they rest.
We both simultaneously break our glance as I turn to my seat.
Oh, how I wish you were sitting next to me.

His eyes were the colour of the southern shallow sea just before the break of a gentle wave at shore in the first hour of sunrise

I wish to be in Solitude,*
Away from countless distractions and useless epiphanies.
I wish to be in Solitude,
Away from tiring conversations of endless encounters.
I wish to be in Solitude,
I long to sit in silence, a blanket of tranquility,
To only hear my own slow breathing.
I long to listen to the trees,
While a wave of wind flows over me, into Serenity.
I long to close my eyes,
To only see my gentle hands and the natural colors of the woods when I open them.
I long to see these vibrant colors of life again,
Not to be diluted by monotonous greys.
I long to clear my head of anyone’s voice that is not my own,
Allowing only the harmonic song that the flowers sing of healing.
I long to heal and to rest,
To forgive my brain and body of self-inflicted harm.
I wish to be in Solitude.

Woke up today with a slight pain behind my eyes and an offset to my balance, but with the satisfaction as well as the nostalgia of an impulsive but extraordinary night, bettering mundane acts in their simplistic beauty of inconsistency and the natural routine of humanity.

I evaluate my past and watch my moods swing back and forth between extremes and I write and read of poets who have felt the same melancholic sweetness of the sun’s light and the madness of the moon and I fear my story will end with the same fate as my idols; driving in and out of oblivion until my head hangs low of drunken breath and cigarettes with smoke in the air and a burn around my neck

She is an unhealthy obsession which fritters away my attention for anyone else, and whom I can only become haunted by and consumed by but never taken by.

I see everything; I am blind.
I know all; I know nothing.
I feel all; I feel nothing.
I am all; I am nothing.

I am burning desire. I am passion.
I am a bee. I am a tree's branch. I am a flower. I am a snowflake.
I am the sun. I am the moon.
I am the ocean. I am a bird.
I am air. I am fire.
I am cold.
I am alive.

He looks at me, and I look at her.
Exchanged glances between passing seconds of meaningless stares dreaming of meaningful dances
He holds me, and I touch her.
Bashful brushes of skin to skin in public places with filled seclusion in a hovering grey
He loves me, and I love her.
Simple questions while known answers linger in stolen kisses in dreamt lust and lost seduction
He has me, and I lost her.
Stalking envy in new lovers and torn pictures reflecting golden rays from shining eyes and broken ties

feel her slip away
feel her hands unravel yours
feel her fingertips leave your last touch
feel the cold when her warmth loses your heart

see her eyes look down
see her colours fade into dull fragments
see her feet when they walk away
oh god, don't let her slip away

Imagine yourself in a park.
You are standing next to a fountain, surrounded by tens of people but all you hear is the soft trickling of water behind the stone bench you rest upon. You hear couples laughing and children playing. On the other side of the waterfall is a calm lake, contrasting to the busy noise of the people. The lake is then surrounded by a circling of trees, acting a a natural barrier to the stressful office buildings past the park. You live in the city, amongst constant crowds, sirens and traffic lights.
But standing next to the angel fountain and the soothing vibes of the lakes and its trees, you are at peace.

I don't think I could ever let go
Of the taste of chapstick on your lips
Or the feel of your hands on my hips
Or the warmth of your body next to mine
I don't think I could ever let go
Of the way you kissed me goodnight
Or the feel of your hand in mine
Or because you never said goodbye

Dance.* The art of the body. An outlet for the soul.
Healing for your heart. Freedom of thoughts.
Walls broken down. A locked cage left open.
Emotion into movement. Shows hurting words unspoken.
Relief of pain and stress. Lifts the weight off your back.
Troubles disappear. Worlds fade away around you.
Lost in the moment. Feelings flow out.
Life slows down. Peace found through dance.

There was a soft mysteriousness about him. Subtle, but it was there. He seemed sad, but hopeful. He had a kind heart, but life was not as kind to him. He was shy, but beautiful. His hair was dark, but he showed pale skin and pale eyes.  Eyes that absorbed and sent back light from every shade of blue, gray, and white. Muse-worthy. He had battles inside of him that he could not understand. He was unaware of the fact that a girl across the table, who had not even spoken to him, could recognize he was created by and of galaxies.

I have three main purposes of writing concerning audiences other than myself:
1. I want to make people cry.
2. I want to make people question their morals.
3. I want to show people the magic of poetry.

10:47
You are the ocean and I am merely a shell caught back in rolling tides of your embrace when I am simply trying to reach the shore.
11:31
I take one look at you and I know my heart is ******* because although I fell in love with someone new, I must admit my heart still belongs to you.
11:43
You are a one-way ticket to a land of burning coals and golden clouds.
11:47
I suppose you can never raelly let go of that captivation of a first love.
12:07
Soft lips moving from cheek to neck
Curious hands grazing chilled skin
Bodies pressed from hip to chest
Don't relent this gentle sin
12:13
To write requires emotion. There is no thought or meticulous process of finding the appropriate words. When the time is right, the verses should just spill out and only then will your heart be relieved.
12:59
I try to write so I dip the pen in ink and place it on coffee-stained paper and allow my hand to move but the problem is there are lots of words forming behind my eyes but I cannot seem to place them together so I end up shaping scribbles staring at a blank wall but how long until I realize I am trying to write in clotted blood.
13:20
I can't say what I am. I don't know how I feel.
I don't know what I'm doing, but at least I'm ******* living.
13:42
She was  a dangerous girl with short skirts and ripped stockings. She wore a black choker and held her chin high as she walked alongside a busy street. Her eyes were like silver bullets, always focused and alert, as i targeing her prey. She was the kind of girl who would cause car crashes on a highway. She was the kind og girl who would break your heart.

You know that I love you. You know that I adore that longing look in your eyes every single time you look at me. You know I adore your romanticism. You know that every time you touch me, it soothes me. That every time you hold me in your gentle arms, I am at comfort. I am at peace. I am at home.
     But.
     My past has a way of gnawing at me.
     Because every time he looks at me, my heart starts skipping. Every time he touches me, a mere second's worth of flesh, I am shot with electricty. And although he is not empathetic or even all that romantic, you've always known I've been an addict for adrenaline. You've always known I crave the danger. You know I'm in love with the rush.
     So forgive me Darling, if I stray away from home.

Of course I love you darling
but every time I see his face all the memories come back like a golden wave and I am caught in reminiscence and a nostalgia for a boy I used to love and I choke on the truth that *I still do.

A magician's most prized possession is captivation of the eyes.
A lover's most prized possession is captivation of the heart.
A devil's most prized possession is captivation of the soul.

It's such a strange thought to imagine just seven years from now we will be completely new people. Seven years from now each and every cell that embodies us will be shed and reborn again. Our skin will be new skin and our bones will be new bones. Seven years from now, we will have a body that past lovers will have never touched. Seven years from now, all our flaws and imperfections that gnawed at us before will be washed away and we will be renewed. Seven years from now, we will not recognize our old selves, for our looks will have changed but so will our minds. Seven years from now, we will know and have seen more, for better or worse. We will grow and evolve. We will have our virtues ripped from our throats, and we will build new ones. *Seven years from now, you will not recognize me at all.

I guess I will never really understand
The maniac ups and downs of my moods
Like a rollercoaster that can never make up its mind
But how it differs from a theme-park ride
Is that it never stops, it never rests, it just keeps
turning and spinning 'round one corner to the next *****
And I am constantly dizzied by this notion that
I can never gain control
I can never find rest

On a fine evening of philosophical debates and a pregnant moon hung low in an endless sky, I have come to the quaint conclusion that we are just a speck of dust in an immeasurable masterpiece of an art we could never properly analyze. / Our humanity is defined by the time that will soon pass us all until our bones decay in the roots our ancestors buried. / Until our roads cave in and our buildings collapse, falling deeper into the core of this place we call home, washing away the remains of our precious technology / Thinking, seeking, hoping we can discover the secrets to the Universe through misinterpreted numbers and pretentious formulas from far-fetched theories. / We call this planet our home because this is where we awoke in new bodies and hands with a potential knowledge to create profoundly magnificent things / but we have wasted that potential by wallowing ourselves in insignificant troubles and materials that only prolong our progress. / We cease to understand that the answers are indeed within ourselves, but we spend too much of our time studying simplized concepts broken down for comprehension, when if we focused, we would recognize that even the composition of our inhabited bodies are beyond wishful comprehension / and that eventually our souls will be set free once again, to rest among stars and new galaxies, and we will learn of our capability from the start.

Love is Woe, and Woe is Me
but She is Love, and She hath not brought Woe
She, with her sun-glinted eyes
        hath never brought Woe.
She, with an exquisite beauty as precious as a thousand roses,
       a veil pure as the most untainted white,
              her lips painted a crimson tide,
                     and a soul pure gold,
                     hath never brought Woe.
But I, feared beneath the Sea,
       am dark and malevolent
       lurking through golden rays.
I am the Rose's stem,
       to carry Her fragile frame through whispering winds,
              Unfortunate is She.
Hast I am the thorns,
       which will someday see again that crimson tide,
              but metallic streaming down her wrists.
I hold secrets at the bottom of the Sea,
       rushing water which will someday flood her fluorescent eyes.
I know the whispers of that wind,
       a warning which She, blissful in the ignorance, does not hear.
I recognize the danger,
       and it is that damage I fear,
              the dread I see...
For Love is Woe, and Woe is Me.

The cold, unlike most people I find these days, does not make me shrivel up under countless layers of clothing and tremble in an unforbiding ache. It does not make me tired and want to stay at home, or even stay inside for that matter. It does not make me complain and wish for warmer weather.
       I love the cold. I admire it. It makes me feel alive. Sending small tingles through my spine, igniting an urge to run. An urge to go do something remarkable. The cold gives me inspiration, energy, and even comfort. Comfort that I am a part of something so much bigger than I am. A beautiful composition of a cycle that is beyond comprehension. And that makes me feel significant, with the contrary of a scarce absence of fear or worry.
       But most of all, the cold reminds me of him. Not of pain or bitterness, but of excitement. Of something intriguing I can never, but will always try, to figure out. The cold reminds me of him, and how much he loves that chilling sense of freedom, as I love him. And how he is so at peace with nature, as I find that same serenity in the frost. And how, we are at one with the cold.

My dear lover, why did they put me here?
Reckless in authority
     Pushing, pulling, straining, taming
Trying to *tame me
     Tame you, tame us, tame them!
Would someone please try to tame them?
     Save them, save me, save us, love
They did it because of a love
     What's so wrong about love?
Whipping, striking, beating, bleeding
     One hit, two hits, three hits, four
     Five knocks me to the floor
Sit up! Stand up! See your ****** mother cry!
     I'm sorry brother for lusting lies
Lies told and lies seen
     Lies for things which you define me
Kick the chair from beneath my feet
     A noose hangs loose from this old tree
As my neck strains against these strings
     Last thoughts wonder to Adam & Eve
Who ate the fruit which planted these seeds
     The poisoned fruits are *you and me