i used to write to let out the pain
as ink spilled onto the smooth white surface
so did the excruciating truth
but now it seems
the ink is red
and it spills from the
wound that you left me
with every stroke of the pen
each memory of you and I
comes rushing back
like salt burning flesh

These words are for you
They are the words you'll never know

Between these pages,
Whispers
The fated words I breathed
When I was certain you couldn't hear

Spattered ink
Preserved forever
To be devoured by one who wishes the words were theirs

You will read the pages
And think they are for another
You will never dream that
You could be the source
Of such wonder

I don't want you to care because I don't want to believe that you care. The last time I was so unaware that this "care" that you felt was only temporary. I'm tired of being temporary. I want to be that longing feeling in your spine that you just need to crack to feel some relief again. When will I be relieved? I can not yet again be another book that you put down and never finish because you lost interest. Or the fresh hot steam lingering on the mirror preventing you from only focusing on yourself.

The desert gradually turned to a grassy thicket
tamarack branches turn towards the fleeting dusk
above, ancient starlights fade in cimmerian skies
their ghostly glow choked by the sullen silhouettes
of churning charcoal clouds against the abyss.
The world feels as though she is being devoured
by nothing and emptiness.

Again the tortured-self awakes inside of Apricus
wrestling with its bindings merely out of gall.
It elicits ache in the belly of its captor,
the kind that only heartbreak makes inside us all
and once the tantrum cease,
it laugh a little before it speak

The darkness comes, not for you and I alone
but in the end all life is its sacrifice,
why struggle any longer to change the minds of sheep?
Has the battle not hardened our flesh, sharpened our teeth,
has it not made us hungry for what lesser men eat?

A thunderhead above him began to coil
tightening its hold around the moon,
each rotation siphoned the lunar light
till the well traveled soil of the trail
turn to a thin brush, then into a heavy wood.

Ask not if you shall stray from your path
rather ask if you will have the constitution
to find your way back in the black
of a stormy night.

i hate the way you smirked at me,
and how you know everything.
i hate the way you made me laugh.
i hate it when you sing.
i hate your extra small t-shirts
and how i never said goodbye.
i hate you a lot,
so much it makes me cry.
i hate it when you don't answer,
i hate it when you're sweet to me.
i hate it when you make me blush,
even more when you can't see.
i hate it that you're far away
and that you harshly lied.
but most of all i hate the way i can't seem to hate you.
not even at all,
not even a tiny bit,
not even if i tried.