rumpelstilskin
has nothing on me

whilst he may be able to spin straw into gold,
i've been able to spin a web of deception
that has wrecked countless innocent souls

when have the weights on my shoulders
changed appearance, to humanoid forms
and why am i not able to pry them off
if they're only sinking me down
to spin me around

in a world of disappointments
i am my own whirlwind,
and
thrillingly; i suffice.

where i fail,  i am true.

the issue is: i must live to write.
it's imperative, imagination only does so much;
so now i'm here, where no one lives.
i am stuck
in this place no one gets to die
of their own exclusive free will.
i struggle and feel worthless
'cause i must live to write
but i must write to live, at least one last time

i'm tired of sleeping
because my blankets can't fulfill any of
    my needs
but i'm tired when i wake
because i just can't seem to stop the ache
that lives permanently
    in my teeth

stop blaming your humane pain on a rose's thorns.
you knew you could get hurt so you should have been careful. forget your own overdone clichés... it's not the rose's fault, you were too blind at the time to see it or too busy shifting vision from side to side in an attempt to get someone's best angle, their angelic fake face.

she wonders if she's worthy
to cross their poignant minds
an ice temple is burning
the trees are all yearning
for her savoury touch

if you fell in love with my words
you couldn't even love me
for i am full of abandonment
       for myself

ice in hand
she suffers,
then flatlines,
then conquers it,
then vanishes.

i'm back to my wheel of misfortune
the creepy man in the black suit is pointing at
    voyage.

all i ever wanted to do is leave
and it's not even romantic at this point
i hate it here and there's nothing holding me back
empty words that weigh as little as paper

not anymore
why am i always pretending?
i can't stand up in this tiny box of a house

pounding in my head
tired once, twice, third time tried again
dreading the nervousness of june august september and may
**** the gnomes by dumping our feelings in the ashtray

so you'll spite me for using my words to express myself
for exaggerating in the name of beautiful poetry
that rhymes like wind chimes
and sounds like fresh mint to the human mind.

but honestly, honey,
i thought you knew me well enough by now
to know that my style and pen are overwhelmingly enthusiastic
in the pursuit of my daily pick of what human nature can gift me.




believe me, baby, it's what i do.
and i'm not sorry at all if that bothers you.

my fingers smell like
your absence
and there's no other way to
occupy my time
but this feeling of loneliness