I grasp on to what is left of time
yet it dissipates elusively upon the hooks
of youth.
I wonder if I were to end it all,
perhaps I would be frozen in time;
a mere visage glancing upon the tendrils of adolescence
who claim to be "eminent for their age."

Outlined in the shadows of dawn,
the vista of ocean softly reveals
a repletion of reflection across the faint musk of light.
I ask myself again if I were able to write a sonnet within
the acres of crystalline perfection,
yet all I can do
is form a mere line
denting the shimmer
of sand.

Weaving a dance within the melodic chaos of what we call music
is as if you ask
papers to rustle in synch with the deathly disposition of pollution.
It's easy to wreck this world with beauty
if one is able to entwine more trees across the strung cracks
of breaking twigs coated with spiders and
dead carcasses of honey bees battered to the ground.
Notions of spiders being artists are tossed with
disgust with the basis of a body
inked with obsidian tresses.
People forget that spiders create
webs painting the illusion of a dew dropped sky.
And bees fumble with honey
gorged within the melting ecstasy of sweetness.
Twigs.....
may not seem capable of more than snapping in dying echoes,
but they are a part of nature.
Isn't nature considered
beautiful?

Rain,
drops across the sliver panes of
a creaking window, sliding meticulously inside the
softened pores of my heart.
The droplets of the rain...graze my vision's confusion
for in one endless second
the oceanic clarity of a rain drop
spins its hidden secrets into
a
doze
of
blood.

The golden tint of an autumn breeze
whispers its transcendence across the budding roses.
Isn't it rapturous in the way, beauteous death can easily
coil around a trembling form of birth?
It is one of many mysteries enticing the world,
in the way a dying leaf slowly brushes upon
a withered petal
of new life.

Oh how I wish I was one of those souls,
who could carve a sonnet
from their blood
using the  instrument of a pen
to elicit such tangible tastes of their soul.
Sadly I find that my blood
can only spray shades of ashen melancholy
to dust the unwanted corners of your imagination
or perhaps in simpler terms
writing with my blood is
like unfurling a broken rose
already buried within your hands.
What can I do apart from
creating clichés into my
inspiration
or write poems
which are simply nonsensical.

Help

..................................................
me

....­............................
live.

...................
I

......­.
don't

...
want

..
to
.

.....
*die

Broken pieces slowly dance across the lake
hidden inside the melodies of a maiden mourning for
the loss of her roses.
Shrouded by a cloak of grief
inertly sunken inside the lake's reflection,
she heard her tears fall
from eyes glistening within the constellations
of the sky.
Why bother to watch the stars
collapse into the dying hues of the sun
when it is simply poisoned
by the blue light
of a mermaid's tears.

Listen to the forest's heart pulsing precariously,
   a sensation eliciting the whispers of elegance  
for can you not hear such beauty
  romancing upon the ashen trees of midnight?
Even the moon shines its rapture
upon this graceful dance of the earth
as its gentle pounding heartbeat
steadily generates the nature
of this world.

A feather
slowly drifts down
like a solitary snowflake
blessing the world
with its angelic grace
and purity.

Take me away from all the pain,
forget about the way my heart bleeds on your wings,
pretend that its only roses growing inside your soul
and that my tears are the soft monsoon of love
trickling down our bodies,
just take me to the skies with you
so that I may feel the essence of the clouds running through out my veins,
instead of the usual pain of insecurities.
Just make me feel perfect for once
because I'm not an angel like you
but I want to be
so take me with you
just once
please.

I charm easily with the elegance of my words,
creating a rhythmical movement of lust around your tender heart.
Perhaps I may use the trick of deceit and fill your mind with the endless
thoughts of our love being compared to the effulgence of a dying star,
or I could lace sweet kisses derived from my broken soul upon your unmarked skin.
Maybe then you shall let down your defences for the only thing I can do, in your mind, is write poetry about how much my adoration for you encapsulates the essence of a bleeding rose.
And when you start to dance to the melody of my voice dripped within your love,
**I shall slowly break your heart as you have broken mine.

The skies ring azure with ancient melodies
seaming the world together with soft threads,
puffing smoke like clouds floating above a broken world ,
with falling tears dying in  the gentle laughter of the wind.
and slowly throughout such beautiful chaos
humans try to comprehend the incomprehensible.

I bore the bruises and screams
and shattered inside
believing that it was my fault
for being battered to resemble a bruised peach,
berated to resemble an infected wound.
I tried to shield my frightened heart
from his prey like stature
and sadistic mind;
but he was clever,
he didn't let his barbaric hatred get in the way
instead
he repeated the broken promise of love
and abused my battered body
until I could not take the pain
and crumbled into a small bird
with no wings.

Memories impaled on an endless reality
pierce my empty womb with loss
as cascading tears form the dream of a child
dancing with the gentle breeze
of life.
Constantly reminding my tormented heart
that her sweet innocent face is now
only but a series of deceitful images
alive to shatter my heart.
and that never again, will I be able to
touch the crimson petals integrated
within her soul
created by the essence of  my bleeding love,
watering
a beautiful memory drifting away
into the hands of God.

A lake quietly glistens with tears
forming its transcendent pain
into the tender petals
of a budding rose
floating upon
the moon's rippled reflection.

His tears will never keep me away
for even if he choses to cry an ocean
and drown me with the intensity of his heart
then I will be the sun
blazing intently
evaporating the ocean
and illuminating his heart
with the tranquility of
my love.

Let the rhythm of our hearts
nurture the sweet blossom of love,
so that it may turn into bliss
dissolved from the night time air between us
and shower such rain which binds the growth of our love and roses
together.

Such lamented memories
dance across the spine of
his intoxication,
as he breathes his last
for his broken heart stopped beating
when he poured his poisoned blood
into the vast sea
of despair
thus
his dejected heart refused to pump
intoxication
around his crippled soul.

When a mirror shatters
someone cries
because they
think the
mirror broke
due to how
hideous they
look
but little do
they know
that the mirror
shattered
only
because
it gave up
trying to convince
them
of their
**beauty.

I drown what surrounds me in a sea of music,

                                             because as soon as I turn that music off,
I hear shouting and screaming                                                        ­    
                                       words such as "Idiotic"
are applied to me                        
                                                                ­                     and I hate it.
However...                                                 ­                     
      I choose not to hate
      thus
        I drown this world into an illusion
of what my music plays.

I know a sad puppy
wandering the streets
alone
going to bed
hungry
only pleading
for love
yet receiving none
only pain
as he's
left outside in the
cold
once again,
trying to rise above the
darkness

but
in his heart
he soars the skies
with wings
made from the hope
that someone will love him
eventually,
if not today.

I love you Hello Poetry*
because you showed me that there are people out there who care,
that there are people out there who are so beautifully broken that it hurts to see them in *pain because they are just so stunning.
I love you Hello Poetry
not only for showing me the most amazing people this world has ever seen but for developing me as a poet. For making me realise that there is at least one person who truly enjoyed my poetry, for helping me learn that I shouldn't give up on my dreams. And I still can't believe that so many people have seen my poetry and have acknowledged me as a poet.
I love you Hello Poetry
for giving me the most treasured gift that I have ever received
for giving me hope.
And as a thanks, I have given you my heart
take care of it as it will forever be in my *words.

Poets tend to flirt with melancholy,
savouring
the endless dreams of infinity.

When is it that you give up?
That you let infernos fire devour your strength
That you let delusion's screams chant a lamented melody for you to sleep by
That you let pain kiss your every waking thought goodbye

When is it that you get up to that point?
When you let the palpable tension of fear tighten a noose around your neck
When your mind doesn't register the calls of anguish any more because its numb
When  everything around you dulls to a faint buzz, and the colours drain with malady and the light shines with hate

When is it that you shatter?*
That the limbs of your body tear to stones,
That the hate which he possesses drowns you into storms
That every tears which falls from your eyes carry an anchor to the deepest pits of ocean
That the simplest motions reduce you to screams and blades
And the only waking thought in your mind is suicide.

When is it that you decide enough is enough?
That you decide you can't do this
You can't try anymore
You can't pretend to be strong
You can't smile anymore
You can't be happy ever again.
That the only thing you want to do now is sleep for eternity...

Should I answer this  question?
Should Itell you when specifically you give up?
It's  not up to me though.
You don't have to listen to me.
However if you want to know what I think
Then the answer my friends Is
Never

So when is it that you give up? Decide that you can't do this anymore?
Never

It is incredibly hard to describe how much you have made an impact in my life,
my words are pitiful when compared to the beauty you unknowingly emanate,
such effulgent rapture grows within your heart
as I clumsily pour words together to form a poem
like an intoxicated man hiding inside himself,
I can only feign my pride at myself
when inside in turmoil I struggle to come to terms with
the ineluctable truth
**That my poetry is a measly attempt at trying to convey the essence of the
poem your life is for me.

A sudden monsoon of the soft pitter patter of rain,
slowly cries for her unwilling part in love
drenching her mood in despair
as the sun quietly caresses her  hair
with its dim autumn-lit rays,
unknowingly drying her silky charcoal locks
to long brittle pieces on which she trips as
ice forms its sharp tresses on the
mud barren ground to capture her
in supposed safety
as she unwittingly falls.
A thin stream of tears trickle, ever so gently,
down her ivory countenance.
But in her turmoil,
a gentle breeze quickly dries
her pained tears.
"Such beautiful eyes...", the wind purrs
as it stealthily wraps
its blindingly cold arms
around her pale wounded heart..

I lie awake,
listening to the unearthen trees
whisper their rose petalled lies
prophesying the return of my hope.
Whilst the wind's mournful kisses
die gracefully
in a futile attempt
to form the epitome of
happiness.