Sleeping, waking up, rotting and then sleeping again.
This cycle just never seems to end.
I've fallen into a loophole of desires and ambitions,
But if I'm being honest, I want them none.
Why isn't loving a job?
Why hasn't the world got any love at all?
If I could love, I'd tear this earth apart,
To dig out the affection from its core and carry it all in a cart.
And then I'll distribute it to all of their hearts.

And here we go, I dreamt again.
Besides the fact I spend sleepless nights
And to all the suffering that I had to befriend,
My soul now longs for something that ignites.
Ignites the enthusiasm,
And makes me want to grow.
I live everyday hoping my heart would spasm,
And my brain would go with the flow.

I wish to be a star,
I wish to be the moon,
I wish to never fall apart
And I wish to get such a boon.
But my body is such a goon,
It makes me feel like I'm committing a crime.
I'm living too hard,
It even makes me rhyme.

Rolling around and tied in a grasp,
Couldn't give an opinion,
They never even asked.
You weren't alive when you were almost killed,
Thereupon, you've been growing up on pills.
Every evening at 4:55,
A sweet scent fills the room of mine,
Making me anticipate its source,
Making me question the grounds of ruling alive.

At 7, I discerned what lads actually were,
And the fear within me arose,
Too bewildered to even utter,
And everytime I had had an alike night terror,
I entirely rather froze.
Rebound of dusk and I allow myself inhale the odor anew,
One of the lull moments I spend periodically,
The moments rather lasting only for a few.

At my present pubescent years,
Which seem identical to a curse.
Four walls with a roof and trapped,
Held captive along with a noxious herd.
I reach out to the fragrance,
Its source is the abyss.
The abyss that is actually the reality I deserve,
An actuality where I don't have to agonize,
An existence where I don't have frail wrists.

When I ultimately attain that existence,
I'll neglect these years,
Neglect this poem
And neglect my peers.
It'll be a happily ever after,
Until I ultimately pass away.
I'll question Lord and ask Him what other decisions he has to make.

I want to ask the faeries, 
What they do when they crave their mothers' love. 
Do they also chop their mystical hair? 
Until they think the desire has been killed enough. 
I want to ask their mothers, 
If they love their young ones. 
If they love them like the others, 
Or only when they go and hunt. 

Do the faeries bring them male elves? 
Pixie dust, leopard spit. 
What do they take for themselves? 
Allergic pollen and squirrel bits. 
Love in pieces, 
Nothing in peace. 
Handful of desperation, 
Affection is all they need. 
They drown themselves in ivy deep, 
Swing from the branches of dry trees. 
Until one of them cries and leaves, 
Yet the Faerie is weak? 

Evil birth giver, you wicked witch. 
Lonesome struggle you provided them with, 
And the forest is burning. 
The lakes are *****. 
Rocks are ******. 
Horrible chav creature, do you regret uttering curt? 
All the eggs you had ever laid, 
Have now decomposed in the foul dirt.

Heaven casted a light on her body,
Her thin fabric slipping.
Lighten her body,
Her lover is singing.
"Enlighten her body"
She lives in a castle with a Selkie and fireflies,
Her maidens will admonish you everytime you pass by.
Now and then, she shows up in her oriel window,
Giving me a glimpse of her shedded skin.
One glance, you shed and bow too,
A tear in my mouth, tasted like shrew.
For I loved an enigma,
A paradox in this timeline.
Her unsolved charisma.
Forever vanished in that shrine.

He chase her down,
He chased her shine.
He caught her veil, He caught it just in time.
They teleported to the heaven divine,
"The Selkie is finally mine"
Selkie and her midnight lover roam around in the afterlife,
They eat picked out lilies from the clouds.
And memories that are no longer alive,
Since they are no longer alive.

The poetry people have a
                 body that's tarred.     
             Their scars do not heal,
                 Nor do they bleed.
    They're filled with ink and misery,
          And the syllables they need.

          
      They don't have a favorite flower,
             They romanticize thorns,
        They don't romanticize a lover,
          They talk to their own selves.
    The poetry people do not bear hair,
                     They bear horns.

 The poetry people are not the society,
                  Or the population.
          They're glad to be mortals,
      And they despise confrontation.
      They don't have a complete body,
             Their bones are tangled.
            They have a missing belly,  
       They don't even have ideas to be
                            humbled.
              They don't wear clothes,    
           They cover themselves with
                          parchments.
              With ink stained papers,
          And occasional torn garments.
             Their eyes are fermented
                with tears and the sun,  
               Their nails are crooked,
                       Their lips burn.

                       They pass away,
                       Choking on ink.                    
                         A smiley face
               and cheeks that are pink,
             Love has finally found them.
        But death caught them in a blink.

Her fragile, soft fingers that stain me with black,
My weak stained structure, now unexplainably stronger.
I can see the words flowing from her moon faced mouth,
Tons of thoughts, she has.
She doesn't stop,
She continues the torture longer.
My strips and the pen nib being lovers,
It's all over me.
The ink to hide her emptiness, disguised as a cover,
The way her hand compliments me, it's a felony.
The aura of her dismay and dreams,
My hardback cover, we blend within the amends.
Each letter for her scream,
I'm in guilt, to hell I'm sent.
Go, go, a misunderstood dove,
Sits on me, begging for love.
Fall in a pit of fire,
She's run out of her pages and her desire.