soft words and their way of making people sing
lull me like a sweet tune in this chimney, in this place
in my head, slurring over and over until lines would draw up triangles of sleepy infant "jeux",
  circles of faded fantasies would come to life and pray,
  plus rectangles and cornucopias filled with fun and livelier days.
clouds of droopy golden light drip over our heads as we both lay
in soft blankets made out of my personal handmade Heaven's embrace
lush silk pillows under our overweight, over-bearing, strongly fastened necks
  'cause they hold Atlas' weight and the answers for today.
the cycle ends for another shortened day...
the air seems rich with the smell of freshly-made pancakes.
little troll walking down the stairs with a new spring in her step.
lean into the chocolatey sweetness of a mother's oven-like haze,
close your eyes and wonder
if you'll ever feel the same.

cigarettes will **** you
and pills will make you try
the ***** will make me miss you
and your pictures will make me cry

if you really cared
about me
about anyone
at all

if you really care
about my well being
about anything that isn't yours

all you have to do
is read my poetry.
me;
because i have shared it with you
but it flew right past.
you;
as if it didn't matter at all

in the surveillance of our story, 850 seconds perhaps, in glorified memory,
little jews open their eyes amongst the flaming sculptural spire
and the third of her name, Jerusalem, (is it him?)
(artistic was her surname)
unfortunately, her ID, consumed by torch & flame (.........)
another mourning, another brown, & soggy & tasteless ******* day
in which to despair at the state of her very purposeful Occidental ways
surrounded by fake patriotism & fourteenths & sevens & May
contrast the Marseillaise's rightful sudden death
     [ violet haze ]
the saddened by the tragedy
have more to lose at stake

her body;

i refuse to compare it to another 60's                                      
                      ­                                   cliché.
she's not a movie, not a painting.
not a flower.
not a galaxy.

she's unique enough
to be called
         a
            river
                   of
                       her
                             own

because her body is made from the same matter clouds are made of.
mountains, oceans, fields cannot compare, to the pretty girl
with the curves
that could drown you
or make you
                              float


away, she is nicotine,
she is the balloon that guided my dreams
she leaves and i do too
wherever she goes i will follow.
a quest to look for the very strengh that belongs in the core of her eyes.

if she could only see
the way she looks to me.

we are merely humanoid paper dolls.

counterparts straddling each other's hips;
while our breaths intertwined
and formed a beautiful canopy above where we slept that night.

i have not yet found a book that called it something other than cutting ties;

but in my head it is simply removing the paper band aids that connect me to other people, what i do best.

the city lights blink at me with the intensity of one looking to the person that abandoned them
in the face of these people, all I'm able to do is bow my head
and
surrender.

as the sun comes rushing in
through the cracks in the window, with a Matisse-like sheen,
a witch ponders over her natural, self-made enemy;
her trees are topsy turvy,
her entrails are unfurling.
as she careens into arms unfolding,
her breath mist was captured by Rodin

are an entire army on their own.

depending on which side of the mirror you look at us from,
we are beautiful in an ethereal way
and dangerous like the steel that won't be bent
         to fit
         your
         stupid
         box.

if the hand outline has been emptied,
i'll say sorry in advance.
call the emergency mind-repair system
(please never ever call me back).
quiet down the thoughts now,
if seems your time has come:
to be cast into oblivion
with the rest of the mortal ones.

i'm back in my spot
but it's not mine anymore.
people have read me
people have temporarily glanced into the duvet that covered
my breathing
so no one hears it, no one sees
what's really going on within me.

once i trust myself to give her a peek
i'm worried she will never see me, again
amongst the trees i am tiny
and unseen
and unclean

i do not know how much longer i can take this weight on my bare back
i do not have the answers that reside in my core
my centre is soft and i'm no different

we all are.
futile.

first; tie a knot,
for the ones you've cut,
the ones that fell down,
the ones that you've lost.

second; build a bridge,
skinny mistake,
burn them all down,
without feeling a thing.

third; circle the bridge
in a long piece of rope,
pray that it doesn't snap
on account of the smoke.

fourth; under the bridge and pull,
now tighten it up, it's easy to do,
now your noose is as tight
as your shoe.

fifth, at last, the final step; tuck your shoelaces into your shoe,
'cause tripping ain't fun
when you fall and break your arm
or maybe your heart, or one, or two.

yellow vases shan't hold Montmartre coffee nor goldilocks no more,
brilliant sunshine wrapped around thy hair, unmoving in this unending fall.
yellow paint and quivering ink-eating, masking something for sure:
just make this bread, add spicy Dijon must-dust for show.
eat it all up, absinthe's place in your heart and soul,
toxic waste in your yellowish carnation, oozing out lemon holes.
will he really swallow the missing piece of his own (...)?
was he really the type to ponder & slaughter the only thing that he truly owned?

your look of contempt pierced me.
made me feel like i was screaming at a tsunami,
for a split second i believed it wouldn't engulf me completely.

but it did and i'm tumbling
rolling on the ocean floor
disturbing all kinds of creatures
films have warned me about

i'm worried a giant squid
might wake up
and drag me down,
and i'll suffocate for the fifth time this week.

if living will just mean waiting in line at infinite supermarkets
i renounce my human mortal right,
while the longer the waiting gets, i cannot comprehend
and the future seems so far away, untouchable by a mortal's haze
we are all left gawking, dumbfounded, restless in the last lampshade
mosquitoes on the wall
"stop waiting for life to begin with" will be carved on my marble tombstone

i have bared my skin
to the people closest to me
for the first time in forever

as i expected
my ribs were
          too sharp
and poked
those who stood next to me


i find my ribs beautiful when they are covered with skin
not so much when they're laid bare for people to see

(tw: this is really pessimistic and sad.  unfortunately i see the world this way.)

                                 ~~~

soulmates don't exist, they never have and they never will be. our currently overpopulated planet spits random people in our faces and our overcrowded, desperate, feeble minds struggle to claw at them with all the intensity in our nonexistant soul. we cling to people we see ourselves reflected in, but how can we not feel understood when every single human being is exactly the same as we are? the eternal fight to "stand out", to be "unique" acts like the devil's advocate by screaming (in our faces) that we're all identical and obnoxiously ignorant in the face of a cold, uncaring universe.

soulmates don't exist. we are desperate to feel companionship in this messed up place because we are fully aware of how lonely we really are, even if the majority of YOU choose to discard your knowledge and "follow your heart". wake up. we are specs of nothing who, by some chance, float amongst other specs of absolute nothingness. and the worst part is, we feel so entitled to a soul that we swear love and all other feelings do exist, while the person that represents our physical needs laughs and reminds us that in the end we succumb to all that is natural. natural, not like the fabricated romance or the force-imposed darkness that resides in every single one of us. the one we recognize when staring into someone else's mind. the one we choose to ignore, but kills us daily. the one we forget other people have when we project our despair and expectations created by false idols on other people, and foolishly call it love.
soulmates don't exist

it rose


slowly at first
as i took it in and marveled in its beauty, it changed
metamorphosis, they called it
heard the wind through the leaves in my back garden way before you noticed the storm coming


and then it was graceful
beautiful
everything i ever needed compressed into one tiny experience
am i reduced to only this?

if so, i am  
                  tiny (and
                                   meaningless)

have you ever
felt
tiny
whilst staring at the stars
2 AM rants in your brain told you to learn and watch and learn and listen

i guess i was too busy looking at them
and i didn't notice us crashing down

but the sun came up
and i may not have slept at all, but i sure as hell could see what would happen

so i stared, waiting for beauty, waiting for tragic endings to come, to define me, to become me
like i was in a movie

and in the end
all it did was burn

it came unexpectedly,
it always does.


my father, head bowed in submission,
the heavy weight of survivor's guilt seemed to be ageing him;
pulling him towards the very end she was consumed by,
before my very eyes.

i could've sworn he looked like a black angel.
death himself would have stopped and recognised a fellow spirit,
specially when he bent down and kissed her on the forehead.

as his face flickered, all i felt was doubt.
one of his faces stared me down, challenging.
who is this man?
unrecognizable brethren, kin made out of corrosive copper.
double-faced, double-timed, double-edge razor sharp blade.

his wings parted slightly, metaphorically.
they couldn't fit in the room so they expanded until we were floating in the abyss:
him, her, me (a witness) plus dozens of mute worshippers.

in the end, we left her behind.
said our goodbyes, and visited her again but she was gone....
materialistic prices reduced to ashes, just like her.
nothing more than a memory.
nothing less for those of us who remember what her carnal facade held.


now we sit, because in reality we didn't even move in the first place.
i guess i should've seen it coming, the warnings were there...
my first funeral.


as we exited the church,
my hand hadn't even left the wooden wormhole when she whispered

                      "there will be another."

she
has shape-shifted
and switched sides many times,
kind of similar to the way water bursts
when placed into the tiniest of containers.
and she
has learned
because the ounces of liquid once lost
came back to haunt her.
still, she hears their voices in her nightmares:
"you're soon to evaporate,
water never really does change".
she
has shivered.
she has spent time in solitary, all those years
staring out to the world that laughed at her tears,
droplets of pure water mixed with ichor,
of blood mixed with sweet, sweet liquor.

but you
have started
to discover the wonders this world holds,
the secrets the water covered
(just like her, she always hid)
oh. please. no.
so you
must never give in
to the pull that turned me into water in the first place
you must remain strong,
a hurricane and a glass of lemonade
cannot compare to honey
mixed in with all of your thoughts.
because you
have been made
with the same razor edges your baby blanket was woven out of
and that is
surely
the most memorable thing about you.

i am angry
at myself and her
for being cold and not understanding
for being superficial and not understanding

this is my soul
can you not understand
this is what i call home

have you not realised
there           is             no               one                    here      

anywhere but here

she is taking you
away from me
and this is all i have
please don't leave me

angry and resentful

appears to be my everyday
but you have crossed a line
crossed the line
the only one i thought you would respect
without me having to ask you to

please

let              me                breathe

• to stop giving away the very things that i need

if my agonizing stomach is empty
i should be putting food in it
instead of baking cupcakes for      
                               everyone else.
i am hungry for something
i haven't witnessed anyone give away,
throw away,
erase my pain.

golden slumber,
wait for me.

come back,
come home,
check in and see.

no one knows
if you're actually gold
'cause maybe you're done for,
outdated and old.

you might not be golden at all.
i'm sorry,
it's just that i feel the loneliest
every september, during the fall.

my break has officially broken me

i though i needed to spit it all out
to say everything
to satisfy the tiny man sitting on my shoulder

alas, i was wrong

he stood on his empty,
cheap soap box
and proclaimed, proudly:
"poetry is for the writers, not for the readers"

sorry, but i disagree.
see the way that you have
connected with me
through nine simple words
and provoked enough thoughts to fill entire encyclopedias with the eternal dilemma of the human soul.

no, i don't agree;
for i write for myself
but i also write for thee.

maybe
we talk about
falling in love with someone's eyes
because
their eyes are
the key to finding what their souls hide

"no one needs me"
i realised and therefore screamed

i know the people closest to me heard it.
after all they were standing mere inches away from me,
hiding behind a green screen.

just like that they ignored
me

and turned around;
set their gazes on their screen and continued living their lives as if i hadn't thrown a bottle,
with a message,
at their heads.

the beginning of the new me came,
shape-shifting curiosity that not only killed my cat
but also my best friend.

he was a boy,
i was a drunk girl that texted him "i love you" whilst lying in a bathtub with
another girl

and i swear we weren't kissing
we didn't even hold hands
but that night i slept next to her and i knew

the fire that resides in the pit of my stomach had only burned like that
for a millisecond
whilst i was kissing him
and holding her.

it didn't end perfectly for us, but i was her first girl and she was mine
even though love decided to pass our door that morning, we still had lust
yet it wasn't enough

and i haven't forgotten
the way strands of her hair felt tangled up
with my *****-ridden tongue

they told me they could see the sky reflected in my eyes
but they forgot that i always carry a mirror for contemplation
and i could see it, clearly,

you can see the reflection in my eyes
but their words made me think of beautiful sunsets or shimmering dawn

in my eyes, the sky looked like sulfur

Hubris (from ancient Greek ὕβρις) describes a personality quality of extreme or foolish pride or dangerous overconfidence, often in combination with arrogance.

                           ~~~

on the subject of paper thin strings
i'm tied, we're tied, you're tired
of being ******* to posts made out of stainless, painless steel.
ironically trying to sing your problems to the ashtray,
unironically trying to run, run, run away...
this post weighs me down
spins me around a thousand million times
until we forget that we've been dancing by ourselves for quite a while,
because there's never been another princess like me
except she wears the same crown every other princess does,
and she still sits at the bottom of the stairs and cries every night;
no white unicorn, no black dove.
but to all the princesses that wear top hats or silken kitten ears
you too are paper thin and water thick.
our strings are all the same:
Zeus himself saw to them being made of underfed dreams,
un-photosynthetic flowers that grew out of expectations in some genie's head.
so, where's your conclusion?
we all suffer from hubris.
we all survived the tsunami just to die in the ship wreckage
and suffocate in the debris.
we're all weak, and meekly making our ways along
              these stupid paper thin strings
attached to a post made out of
              stainless, painless steel

i put something behind me.

or at least i thought i did;
because when i turned around,
with the intention of sticking my finger out,
i suddenly realized
that my throwing needed more practice
and that all i was putting behind me was
weighing down my back.

as i slowly exhale, they fall in front of me, ready to be picked up again.

as a piece fell out and almost made me choke on it
another one clicked into place

where does all this resentment come from
and why can't it just leave me
alone
          like everyone else did

taxi drivers will
always be strangers behind
the glass divider

relying on them
depends entirely on you
and human instinct

the weight on my back
disagreed, it said "please no"
oh, i almost did

but my abusive
need for a little fun and
alcohol was my doom

taxi driver, where?
please, where are you taking me?
i want to go home

the sneer on his face
suggests more than pure evil
he likes the darkness

oh, taxi driver
careful with my fragile mind
and my cotton skirt

my mom will be mad
when i tell her my new skirt
has been ripped apart

my head feels heavy
guilt and fear intertwine and
crush me, i'm breathless

no, taxi driver
you will not buy me a drink
i want to go home

i said: take me home.
everything's blurry and i
can't find my phone

oh, taxi driver
please, just get it over with
maybe you should end me

the last thing i'd see
was my dear taxi driver
looming over me

taxi drivers will
always be strangers behind
the glass divider

that's what they said.

immediately,
my mind closed the hatch
that i use
to peek, from time to time,
at the world around me.

silence followed
and my thoughts screamed loudly,
deafening in the stock-still void:
"but what if the only thing my voice is telling me to do is shut up?"

my selfless facade is cracking
under the pressure of the pillars that crumbled all around me
the puzzle pieces that don't fit anymore,
together forever, seems stupid now.

as i struggle to pull back the blanket
so i don't reveal the tricks up my sleeve,
i stumble and the whole charade ends.
it was pretty while it lasted,
but now i must write about something else.

as the hangman jumped
the rivers explode,
the music has stopped,
everyone just watched...
he's taking a leap
but the adrenaline's gone.

i just jumped into the firepit
to relieve the burns cascading of your shoulders
and you strutted off, with terrible excuses,
maybe searching for water.
but you left me there to swelter:
you forgot to take my hand and
pull me out of the flickering
hell i was thrown into.
even though i only jumped 'cause you where there.