This time,
I felt nothing.
Not the fast beat of the heart.
Not the violent wave of rage.
Not the muffled tears of sadness.
Not the all-encompassing envy.
Not the unstoppable movement of despair.
Not the stinging noise of defeat.
All that was left, was that bitter taste,
In the back of my throat.
I called out, and the moon...
Didn't respond.
I was empty,
And nothing in the world, could fill me.

Remember that feeling,
When you pick at a scab.
The fleshy white skin that forms,
over the red underneath.

A thin layer that protects
From elements,
as you heal.

But I'm,
Left staring,
Mouth-wide open,  at the blood,
Coagulating silence.

I wonder,
This time,
Why did you come back?
To pick at my just healed wounds?
I'm sorry,
All that's left is ash.
The charcoal still burning,
Red-orange flames.
Dying down,
Burning out.
This ash,
It covers me,
From head to toe.

If I had want of anything
In the entire world,
It would be of hands,
That mold clay into shapes.
Shapes that serve a function.
Shapes that piece together,
The fragments of hope,
You forfeit to despair.
For it is hands alone!
That knead tirelessly,
That truly make the world move.
Not wit, charm,
Nor these majestic tapestries of words.

I held the sun in my left hand.
The pen in my right.
Placed the sun above and squeezed.
As my blood began to boil
My skin began to peel,
My right hand shook,
But I couldn't let go.
What laid on the paper
Was the yellow flame from the sun, full of red blood
and black ink: The witches brew.
I growled, at the top of my voice!
"What more can you take?!?!
My life?? Take it, it's yours!
My poetry? It was written,
long before I was born!
My hand? I have no need for it anymore!"
Soon enough,
The sun was floating,
Above my wrist, where I dared to hold on.
It took what it wanted,
And left me a present,
Above the now cauterized flesh.

Breath softly into the night.
So I did
And the world
                                                         Fell Apart.
Like the tears,
As they fall from your eyes
At night,
                                                        I crumble.
The light I hold in my hands:
Burns, flickers, and fades.
As do my feelings.
The difference? Feelings stay
Unlike the flowers
                                                      They wither,
But I,
Burn, flicker, and fade
Till I drown memorialized.
And in the iris of your eyes,
I burn flicker and fade
As the world around me
                                                      Falls Apart.

Behind the door,
There was a room left bare.
The walls didn't have a single painting hanging on them,
My mind already composed the perfect portrait:
Of you.
In my imagination, I'd see it, each time,
I'd walk into my house.
Think of that.
A portrait of you, held only in my mind.
Sounds a lot like us... doesn't it?