Poison was the taste so wicked the pleasures shared my dear .
You were the best poison sampled  in a nocturnal desire all is dead .
Let the pain bring the  pleasures of guilt a tattered memory of my most wicked design.

When flesh is your vice will you not drown in the darkest waters as I have so easily drown within you.?

Her  love was a fix.
Her passion reeked of ****** and I fell victim as so many other's before.
**** me in pains plessure to erase my regrets she begged of me from the confines of a  already empty bed.

Nothing to fill the void.
May are darkness be shared my little girl .
Why can't you see the games never revolved around you but merely absorbed you as all the rest.

If only we understood the pains pleasure maybe as strangers we could **** as we do the ones best kept secret within hates plain sight.
I am the edge of the most evil design.
Poison your kiss and forever it lingers to this fool's thirst.

Have are  secrets simply grown into a existence all there own?
Carve are pleasures I see its passion deeply within your eyes
Tonight was a regret tomorrow a forgotten tune left to die as my soul apart.

Do we question are likes or simply take them as fools and allow them to fade?
My demon need's no slumber within my nightmares existence .
Sweetheart did you dig only to find a little fractured side of yourself?

Are lives are toxic I loved the pain you so easily did embrace as of leftover conquests sweat smells of truths we ourselves can no longer embrace .

The door is closed as the belt around your neck.
We together are poisons pleasure how tragic this night with others we did waste.

As misery always seems to embrace only regret.

Such a good young man,
If only they knew the side you keep hidden
The side that is darkened shadows that breathe my name
So sweet,
Indeed you are delicious
When fed to me from the depths of my very soul
On your knees with no questions asked
With a look, you do your job
Sweet and obedient
Good boys are
I keep you at my feet

My pretty little princess fair
Who dances in my ******* pink
How the people stop and stare
As from my depths you start to drink


Enough! No more frivolity
Suit up my pet
Bows tied and scented in heaven
Dressed in satin and lace
All hidden to the naked eye
And with every step
With every breath
You are lost in me

almost words
             eddy in the murked
corners of my mind

they lack
                clarity
                       and  purpose
they lack
               need
                    and wanting

they lie
      fooled by the worth they
think they should have
   and so.... dissapate having
               never been
formed into  words....
         never having been
more than the
                   grunts and groans
of an overtired....mind
         fecund in potential...yet
barren in time.

              almost...words
gone upon the tidal surge

Dear Talia,

I don't want to be a tortured artist.
I don't want to be depressed and I don't want to be anxious.
Competitive sadness and disorders treated like accessories disgust me.

The world glamorizes mental illness, and I don't understand why. There is nothing romantic about being mentally ill just like how there's nothing glamorous about a broken wrist or a torn medial collateral ligament. There's nothing romantic about constantly being afraid that the world will fold in itself and **** you with it. There's nothing romantic about feeling like you could break down and cry at any moment.

This is the first piece I've written while being medicated.

I want it to be Christmas already.

The world dreams itself a halo, but can only attain horns. The halo is an illusion and the horns are an idea.

I'm due to take another Lorazepam. Would I look cool to the kids who idolize dysfunction and misinterpret pain as style, if I were to take one of these, with water and a distant glance, in front of them? Geez, to have their approval would to have everything and nothing at all.

I'm not sure why I've written as much about this as I have.

You.

It is 2:48 am and all I can think about, in this moment, is you.

I can't wait to spend Christmas with you. I can't wait to wear bad Christmas sweaters, and be the couple everyone hates, as we sing Christmas carols and spread holiday cheer.

I wrote this poem a few minutes ago. Sometime around 2:30 am. I'm not sure. I'm exhausted:

I sat on the edge of my bed, and on the edge of my life,
medicated to the point of pointlessness. Soft.
It was the nineteenth, not the twentieth,
and I wished I saw the fireworks with her fifteen days earlier.

My gasps tore the shingles off of the house.
And they hung suspended above the hole in the roof.
And God stared down into my room, as the shingles swirled skyward.
"I see you," I said, "but I don't believe in you."

I left home and ran until I was a dream that had passed itself.


I hope that was okay.

I love you.


Yours,

Joshua Haines