The destruction is foreign.
The wailing.
                                                                                                   The growling.
                                                                   The hunger claws at my insides,
Seedlings sprout from the soil
as the world swells with my breath,
                                                                    and my organs begin to deflate.
yet none of my cries
will save the oak.
                                                                                          The last of my fruit
                                                                               tumbled down my throat
                                                                                          before burning up.
Alkaline rivers.
salty rivulets.
Dead water.
                                                                                      This ocean is endless.
                                                            The tides change between my teeth,
It pours from my eyes,
                                                                         and it spills from my mouth.
colourless agony.
Blood on the black earth
                                                                                    The taste of red metal,
                                                                                                 a second flood.
where the void was created,
                                                                               The void cannot be filled.
                                                                                                         Insatiable.
imperceptible.
The grove brutally butchered
                                                                               My hand bitten clean off,
by a greedy axe
and a grand appetite.
My words still create;
                                                                                                         my mouth
                                                                                                          the blade.
life still leaves my lips.
What my tongue provides,
it can withhold,
                                                                                             I give it my flesh,
and so you will
                                                                                     tear tissue from bone.
hunger.
                                                                                                Oh, the hunger.

Your mother wants to be your light, protect you from the shapes outside.
But she casts tall shadows on the walls, and turns a blind eye as her kingdom falls.
If I don't see that bright green dot, I wonder if you're alive or not.
The circles have become your name, cycling daily, always the same.
The shape of my tears don't match yours, they're not as tired, bruised, or sore.
But I do everything I can for you, and just hope that those circles come through.

I Miss You haunts me in bubbly blue
Young sapling memories, they're all of you
I've grown since you left.

My young ghost haunts me in bubbly blue
She would have said it back and meant it too
But I don't mean it.

He kissed with his eyes,
And I acted surprised,
As if my world hadn't crumbled
Half an hour ago.

I kissed with my smile,
And we stood for a while,
As butterflies bumbled
In the crystal snow.

Your touch still lingered,
And you twiddled your fingers,
As birds mumbled,
you love him so.

The chirps slowly died
with our lips and eyes,
As we stumbled
slowly home.

Rain is cliche,
but i cant help but bask in it's overplayed glory.
The sky is of God.
Divine water pours from the heavens,
an angel's brew of healing blue

In my dreams I wear white dresses stained with red wine.
The sky’s orange and blue gradient brings me peace, but not enough.
I long for lullabies, and you might just suffice.
My jewelry box chirps at me like the robins that glide in the maple haven.
Sweet, dripping songs almost rock me to sleep, but tears of red wine wake me.
My pillow is wet, and my dress, like always, is perfectly pressed white.

I wish to be her.
   I want to be the sweet epithet that drips down the back of his throat as he picks pink petals.
   That rolls from his tongue to the sky.
   I want to watch from the clouds as he speaks of me.
   She.
   To be her is to be immortal, divine.

My dreams hang from dental floss.
They are painted faded colours of the rainbow, once bright but now diluted.
Anticipation for the sunrise bubbles over and paints the sky white.
Ruined.
Old mistakes reassure me, they give me the colour I long for.
I dreamt of fate, but my alarms were always set.
Time melts and new life springs, but I can’t tell the difference between plastic and sentience.
My only hope gleams in the shadows, and lies in the most mundane corners of suburbia.
The music is in tune, but melancholy stains my smile blue.

How many people have I ****** with my youthful hands?
Where I plant baby’s breath hearts turn black.
My gloves are thin and covered in the grime of hell.
Pure intentions condemn pure souls.
Yellow flowers betray their roots, and their sweet smells beckon storms.
Hades weeps, and his toxic tears water the trees.
I sell the venomous fruit the bear and my hands remain clean.

Good people flap their wings
their tiny, delicate, beautiful wings,
and hope for hurricanes
infinite, heavenly, beautiful hurricanes.