i’ve barely slept,
i’m running on adderal and self loathing,
a mix that has kept me alive for far too long.
i’ve barely slept,
i want you to kiss me until our lips are bruised and touch me hard enough that traces of your fingertips can still be seen on my skin.
i’ve barely slept,
i miss the feeling of someone’s mouth on my neck,
the feeling of gentle kisses starting at my collarbone and falling lower and lower and lower.
i’ve barely slept,
i’m running on adderal and self loathing,
when what i really need is to find my relief in you.

i still jolt awake to the sound of your 3am suicide calls.
all that greets me is silence,
my phone isn't ringing but my ears are.

does it haunt you like it haunts me?
hyperventilating
every time i see a car in your particular shade of grey.
wondering why i can't keep liquor down anymore
or why clementines reek of deception,
or how many more night i will have to spend like this.

when i am with you,
i feel like i am dying,
but when i am not,
i fear you are.

i used to love the way you filled me with panic,
waiting for the next time your blood would be on my hands
and your hands would be creeping their way under my shirt.
not afraid of being alone, but
obsessed with the masochistic way you made me feel
needed.

someone asked me why i didn't leave sooner,
truth is,
i don't think i ever really left.

my cat she is old now turning seventeen
and for all these years my best friend she has been
only 6 week old when she came to me
a very loving cat as gentle as can be

climbs upon my knee.  then  begins to purr
then falls fast asleep as i stroke her fur
i remember  her as a kitten in her younger day
with a ball of wool she just love to play

try to catch the flies on the window sill
always very active never ever still
i will be lost without her theres only her and me
my best in the world she will always

there are roses growing
from my hands
My doubt the seeds
Begging them to grow

There are roses climbing
up my arms
digging in my skin
but i am numb
to their thorns and beauty

There are roses growing
in my lungs
bloodied petals
filling my throat
and falling from my lips

Tears are sliding
down my cheeks
I've had enough
I am to weak

Don't pity the broken doll,
ravished by
time
     pain
           and scars...
Her heart is not unscathed
It too carries
hurt
     wounds
             misery...
Those who judge by what they see
will never know the beauty forged
beneath the broken shell.
Therein lies a heart convinced
     love exists.
The one who isn't a Knight
       devoid of shining armor.
One who too - has survived
       the chaos we call life...
These hearts will meet!
      That is her hope
             That is her dream
Until that day she persists-
      On the strength born of pain...

When you mistake bugs
crawling on a white, blank sheet
for ink blots, or dark stains,

It's just like when the stars
you see in the pitch black sky
move, and turn into planes.

You hide behind
knowledge like
a shield you

feel stronger
when you know
the answers,

when you know
the answers,
when you know.

The best poems are all about
loss and pain and suffering.
It feels more natural to write a poem
about a long lost memory,
Or a love that never worked.

Poets aren't allowed to be happy.
They’d run out of material to write about.

The words
content and happy
in the same sentence as the word
I'm,
feels like your tongue
never sitting right in your mouth,
like teeth getting in the way
when making out
like an itchy throat,
not going away even after coughing a fit.

The phrases
You are and my boyfriend
can't be a real sentence
like how
unicorns and fairytales
don't exist.
They just feel like
two jigsaw pieces
from different parts of the puzzle
forced to sit beside each other.

The word love
just doesn’t resonate
with the beat of my heart.
Maybe because
my heart stopped beating
a long time ago
and my brain had to carry the workload
so I think twice as much as I should
synonyms?
I overthink.

I may be the only poet
who doesn’t want to be happy;
a ******* clinging to heartbreak,
and loss and pain and suffering.
because it’s easier to let heartbreak
wrap myself in its familiar arms
than to experience an adventure
with happiness wrapped in mine.

The warm autumn breeze
         scatters the leaves
     like spring  snowflakes
      I carefully hand stack
        them each by color,
              one by one,
           as if they were
          befallen dreams
                     or
      similarly unholdable
               gathered
      garnered memories
                      •
        each leaf touched
             reminds me
       of how many times
          I've had to let go ―
         how many times  
                I've fallen
     without a place to land
   until the winds of change
         drew me back up
               as if I were
   evanescent autumn leaves,
      to be swept away again,
         touched by the spirit
             the true nature
                  of  love
                      • •        
        sown seeds of one love
           bestrewn hopefully,
             thusly cast about
              just as intended,  
   the grain and chaff together,
     sifted by the velvet breath
        of the samsara wind's
              sanguine touch

                     •  •  •
            

  autumn waters ... October 29, 2017

Another night, another story,
Another set of moments, spent
in the prime time of our lives.
So why has it been meaningless
and less to me, plain to see in
my more recent writings (dare I
declare them poetries, dare I
pronounce modernity worthy).
It's so unclear to a fool waiting
to fall in love, a fool wondering

will it ever catch up, a fool who stopped
chasing the world, too concerned he was
with this fixation upon our conduits, the singularity of whichever connection we're living through. Each generation
lost to their own wondrous iteration of
this eldritch transhumanity.