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.

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

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.

each freckle on her face reminds me of a different heartthrob;

the first him, i broke
the first her, i numbed
the other him, i begged to stay
the other her, i let go before it was too late


the familiar her, whom i am close to losing
the otherwordly him, who doesn't even know me
the exasperating her, whom i can't seem to fit into my own standards


finally, me.
each time
I cut
someone else
I also
engrave
them
onto
my
soul

i
have
failed
myself

unfortunately, it was all i had left

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.

old carcasses showed me the way
they envisioned the world.

have you heard the tales?
the stories that speak of
the end of the world.

a flat world, that is;
the edge were monsters congregated
and prepared themselves for the prey.


that world is trapped inside a bauble,
hanging on my overdue christmas tree.

today i am angry
drawing strengh from courageous role models that I've never resembled

not
      one
              bit

even in my anger i am able to look around
and see other people's second eyes
staring
right back at me with the same fiery hate

i am
astounded
as to how we can all be so unhappy
and not be able to find the solution
as to why we secretly
hate
(each other)

(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

the marble walls are pressing in
and I can't find my way out
your question left unanswered
there are no clues inside my cage
and I know
that if I can't fit in this tomb
that if I don't adapt
            (to whatever
             I'm suposed
             to adapt to)
I'll asphixiate

she spews out poetry
kind of how
        she's ripping appart her entrails
for others to chew on,
ungraceful toxic mess

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

this is the way my poems end
"not with a bang, but with a whimper"

twice as short as
anyone expected
unable to commit
unable to persevere

i cut ties and proclaim myself free as i'm tying the next bow around my neck


next time;
tighter, please

do i renounce my will & my ways?
is this the point of no return?
am i falling hard into doughnut-like-smelling glace?

am i doomed as the forsaken one? do i need to shun Your Grace?
shall i wake you up in a minute,
with cold tea and easterly-brewed eggs?

am i supposed to never let old habits prevail?
does the sole pen feel the need to shine in moonlight?
or am i mistaken (in need of ginger ale)?

do people really write less when things go their way?
why must i hate the sappy?
(how could i convey the same?)

so tell me, my darling, am i willing to take the bait?
is your warmth going to last forever?
will i come back to my previous stage?

perhaps my glasses are *****
because they've seen so much dark

hubris tendrils are the only ones that'll hold me close
your appearance is extraordinarily redundant (if i'm quite honest in my prose)
nothing new here to witness, just the monthly overrated sickness
killing softly with a silver knife in the darkness's burning plate
clichés, i hate, but i won't let me sway-
i need to find my center quick! & i need to find my place
so i can be with someone else that won't grow weird and gray
so we can laugh about the many i have trampled on the way

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

where i fail,  i am true.

i
wonder if
arching back my back
really increases the number
of millimetres of me-  in touch with you
in which case, i understand why the lady in the little black dress became the bow you played her strings on,
****** chill creeping
down your spine
into her dark,
arched
neck-
line

i could see the sun setting
in the rearview mirror on her motorcycle
as i held on tight to myself and to her
i witnessed the sun rise on the other side of the road

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

it feels like i'll be able to breathe again
but only when my nails grow back,
all ten of them

"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.

scribbling
feels like i'm dig, dig, digging
into my brain
which is stupid 'cause i'm writing
letters that have no name.

headlights cutting through fog like i cut all my ties and toes 'cause i wanted to be free
turns out, all i did was tangle myself up with the rejects

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.

how can someone
still look pretty
while she's sinking
she was singing

and they didn't go away, no
in fact it seemed they grew stronger
but the wind in her hair did too
and her confidence grew
until her pose was enough to scare                                                            ­ monsters away

i
am
enthralled
by the way she stares down the world

in the end,
it all comes down to    the debate
between wanting to    free caged birds
and these birds not     knowing
they were                      incarcerated
in the                              first place.

i'm running past life
because i can't bear to walk,
to stop, to listen, to see
what you're able to do to me.
it's pouring acid rain
and you're even less present
than
the blood in my veins.

if my head hurts, will i get a toothache?
if my neck burns, does it mean i'm raging?
does the burn feel the pressure of me failing?
does your mom know your chest-burn won't bail me?
will you hold her, when she's escaping?
will she ****** the thoughts that enthral me?
if my head hurts will i get lonely?
if my veins stop will you stay with 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.

it's crazy how someone can be
slowly recovering
but also
hurtling
               towards
                              the end.

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

people only realise
how much you're worth
once they've seen the door
SLAM        SLAM       SLAM
and you've turned your back
to prove a point, i'd say.

don't bathe me in liquid gold;
i don't want diamonds, i don't want coal.
my heart's desire is someone to hold
at night when i'm at my most
                                 vulnerable
and when i dream of getting old,
surrounded by nothing but lonely nights,
i just want someone to hold.

i am drunk

and as i unlocked the ability to see double
i saw your face reflected on my drink

i want someone to love me
like i'm their own personal gravity
with all the physics i could create

but i guess i can just watch
from the atmosphere
whilst two others embrace

sixth
time
[passing]
doubts
[spreading]
changes
[multiplying, every day a new person rises from the coffin, doesn't realize that she's dead]
now the little girl is no more
because now she knows
about the people below the poppies
about the daisies that contained her friends
and it's heavy
a marble tomb, a coffin, a cage
and it won't open
and you scream and shout and bleed and cry
while mere peasants walk by
"this is art"
"this is natural"
"this is normal"
"this is what happened to us"
excuse me
but the corpse nation would be much more populated if living was this way for everyone
isn't it this way for everyone?
if it is, why am I still a ******?
even though I gave myself up
why
explain
no, don't patronize
I can understand
the words coming out of your rotting excuse for a mouth
if "this" is normal
why do they get to look happy all the time
why are they so carefree
are they actors, actresses?
no?
then explain why I am a fake
explain how you know what feeling normal feels like yet you've never been inside my brain
my brain
it's woken up
and it has questions that no book, no bible, no coran can answer
and there's no relief
help me
the marble walls are pressing in
and I can't find my way out
your question left unanswered
there are no clues inside my cage
and I know
that if I don't fit in this tomb
that if I don't adapt
to whatever I'm suposed to adapt to
I'll asphixiate

seventh
trying out
all my different skins
the detective told me to watch
watch and learn
investigate
choose
become (your favorite)
become the one that will make them laugh
become the things they like
become her
become perfect
and so I was reborn
the renaissance
but unlike the actual renaissance
where the golden age came after the blackest of black plagues
mine was in reverse
the gold had smothered my persona
and I had an alibi
and my persona drowned whilst clutching onto my very core
my feelings and thoughts
the one piece that still belonged to me
[who is me???]
it was gone
but it didn't matter because now I couldn't even think
and no thoughts meant no voices warning me
that that wasn't right
that that wasn't me
that I was as lost as I used to be
so I obliged
I listened to the only voice left
the one that would drift out of other people's ***** souls
and weight us all down
and make us crouch
in an effort not to pass out
but you can't walk forwards whilst
drowning (and crouching)
in fact all you can do is survive

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

vocal chords were built like
guitar strings for a reason:
for voices that will not be silenced
but will only be greatly amplified,
for people that won't be slaughtered,
for the son, the lover, for your daughter.
for the solidarity or the sorority
we must remain invincible, stronger.

look! she said
pointing at stinky flowers in a drainpipe's head
i stared at the hem of the flowers' own dress
methaporical witness of the unfolded events
the downfall of love & grace & respect
"i shall name my next book like them" i said
but secretly i promised i'd write about something else instead

inherently demoted
passion waning in Stonehenge
studying the ancestors below me
(abhors me)
no longer needing the satisfaction, i'm guessing
you'll be needing the ever after
when clinging to the clingfilm of thy emotion
lust for the green light of capitalist torsion
but we're fine,
we made it
we're rosemary
and thyme
did she even make it through or did she just forget me
altogether, i get why she'd renounce me
the pretty lady now's in paralysis
international
clinging onto
the crevices
of the menaces
of the surrogates
mind shifting through plain fields of evergreen men
bottles upon bottles of ***** autumn drinks
guilty smokes, alternative facts and poltergeists
cloud my gaze
renounce my place
forgotten wee daisies were born in this place
but i didn't
and i don't
sister is trembling
sorry, she's alone
repenting for foreign perversions
preventing the invasion of thy nation
crossing the borders with thy translation
simply insane,
simply old age

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

i guess confusing cherry tree petals
with falling fresh snow
might just be a metaphor
for whatever's held in your soul.
but you should know
that the snow always starts to go:
when the sun rises (up!)
the snow is all gone.

even as i shrug i can feel it coming down
i see her last breath
the last breath i will see in many others
scarily alive, creepily deceased

i saw in her eyes that now she was truly terrified of dying
she had finally understood what makes people "people"

and i saw in her tears the very feelings i can't seem to express

forever the outsider, taking notes
feelings and patterns of conduct do not apply to me
writing away my blood and giving away my humanity

i won't form a tear, a whimper
i couldn't form a tear, my sister
i can't form a tear, resisted

i am
          useless      
in the face of pain

suddenly, the weight on my footsteps feels butter-like light.

l'éternel retour
m'avait puissé à agir
une, deux, presque trois cents fois
j'ai fait la même choix
j'ai commis les mêmes fautes
je suis têtue comme personne d'autre
mais qu'est-ce que voulez-vous que je dis
si tu m'appelles "babe"
et je ne me sent pas non plus moi même ni libre

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.

three girls and a cig walking
beneath expectations, between enemy sheets
under all oppression
above the feeling of feeling free
walking towards dry humps and lumps
of flammable ****
three girls and a cig
three girls with a negative me
the moon screamed as we screamed back at it
the difference between feeling fine and feeling free, native from where we stood
and screamed
the slave, the agony, the animal in me
shouted at the stars and sighed all at once, all us three
we were there & there we breathed
and she's oh-so-thankful for this
even though words could not leave her throat, like the screams she had trouble with before
she said thanks a million times in her heart, in her arms, in her overworked mind-hole
directing all her energy to protect all other signs of companionship in human form
yet still unable to voice her words.