They teach us poetry
In dusty classrooms
With seats lined up in rows
Ballad, sonnet, metaphors
They are the proper prose
But we who bleed
In blackened ink
Have no such use for rules
We are the colours
We are the words
I create without your tools
But still we sit
Row by row
And learn to write in lines
My pen longs to dance
Across the page
Defying,
Rhyme by rhyme

Most nights i feel like a ghost, stumbling somewhere between living and drunk, haunting my past selves and kicking the graves of who i used to be, words i used to mean, loves that once found and ruined me. All the quiet and hidden spaces fill with tar and i sink into the dark knowing that i chose this, this life and this pain and this death. Cemeteries fill with ghouls wearing my face, eyes once so vibrant and now terribly, irrevocably hollow.
The soul awaits the sun and the sun never rises here.

The ghosts pass through the walls of our hearts, rattling chains and leaving a frost in their wake, and still we let them wander through our bloodstream. Why do we do that? Why do we open the shutters and unlock the doors, waiting for the empty souls to make their cold home inside our bones? I'm dark as a tomb now, with only ghosts for company and snowflakes for tears.

Mold yourself like clay to suit those you want to adore you, lose yourself in the pitch dark of their requirements and forget sense of self in the pursuit of acceptance. Reach wildly and blindly for their praise and call it love, love, love.

We fell
As Icarus fell
Wingless and burning
Grasping at shards
Of the sun