Oh, elegant verse-*
As one might stumble upon
Some striking thought or connection;
A comet fallen, burning hot as it strikes,
But cooling with each passing second.

As one stands transfixed,
Aware with every fibre that this cannot last for long,
It is you that captures the greatest of these moments.

For with the words that spring to mind
And twirl and morph and stick,
The meaning may change but
Burn bright still.

Reproduced to new form in every mind
That stumbles through the lines,
With some brighter still, than ever did descend
By nature’s hand alone.

The sloppy rain slips and slides down the fogged-up windows,
and this lets me know that I am not as small as I think I am.
In a city of three million plus, I feel like the soul of a nation,
even though I'm just a twenty-one year-old piece of plastic, drinking a hipster beer.

The waitress has frizzy hair and oily skin.
She's holding in late-night infomercials and missed ballet recitals, behind her words.
She looks at my luggage and asks where I came from or where I'm going,
and I tell her that the fun thing is that I have no idea where I'm going --
and that I still haven't decided where I've came from.

This city allows new-found anonymity, and I want that to be my cause.
With each passing glance, I know they don't see me, and, to me, that's the slumber-kissed throat-slit I've always dreamt of...

...the streets play music that I only hear -- and I know that's not fair, but I don't care.

And the homeless represent the bowels of the city.
And the businessmen are the ghost-filled engine.
And the middle class is the defense-mechanism I always wanted for Christmas.
And I am the empty delusion, desperately seeking a new pollution.

There's a loving in your eyes, I must say
I can see it in your smile, clear as day
But I’ll just listen to your lies,
hearing what you have to say.
Selling me your lies with all conviction
While what you are feeling deep inside, a contradiction?
Since I’m the man, you play the victim
Too bad your love is my addiction.
Without it, I get sick to my system.

stripped naked in the figurative sense, I see a girl that is far overdue for a dose of joy. so much emptiness in her eyes, blood flow has become invisible. beauty. oh so much beauty in the way she cares absolutely too much for those that are unaware of her favorite color nevertheless asks how she feels every blue moon. perfectionist could quite possibly be her middle name by the way her heart beats in sync with the spontaneous moods that show their appearance every two days or so. anxiety equals a rapid beat. "if you feel worried then you must act on it" seems to be her philosophy because when she's sad and shaky the heart must go slow.
for,
she.
is.
slow.
when the depression hits and vulnerability only shows its face behind closed doors im sure she would say that she feels as though she's suffocating. suffocating in the figurative sense, where everyone is there watching her but no one can differentiate heavy breathing in basketball practice from a ******* asthma attack.
idiots.
so numb. she's so numb in the figurative sense. you ask her how she is and each time it's an automated "good" as if practiced hundreds of times before a theatre performance. an actress. she's an actress in the literal sense. planting a smile from ear to ear even when it's an obvious gloomy day for everyone else. she puts on a show of happiness that could very much earn her an oscar, if only she were literally in the entertainment business. I can see her falling in the way her back hunches just 10 degrees lower than it had a year ago. I would recommend a doctors appointment but im hoping she learns to fix it on her own. I'm hoping it begins to appear in someone around her that maybe she isn't as okay as she seems. this beautiful perfectionist doesn't just have bad days and doesn't just spare her low moods in spite of upsetting those around her. this beautiful perfectionist doesn't see herself as beautiful. this beautiful perfectionist is so far from perfect.
maybe if someone looked a little deeper in the literal and figurative sense, they would choose to ask, after her automated response of "good", "are you really?"
-mxy

They are fighting again.
Two lovebirds stuck in a cage,
Pretending to be lovebirds,
But are really ravens painted lovely colors.
They put on a show when their owners watch,
Chirping happily,
Flittingly loving.
But turn your back for one second,
And they will screech, quarrel,
Claw each others throats out.
And they think we don't know.

Long ago, stories told of a lost and bitter queen
Whose power grew so thick, that it left her unclean
She grew extremely wicked from the things that she had seen
She tried to fight it off, but her eyes, they turned so green

Watching from afar as her king would break her trust
Not knowing she could see as he grabbed the maiden's bust
As she witnessed his deception, she tried to be fair and just
But her anger got the best of her, and her strength fell to dust

She stirred inside her head, pondering what she would do
For she had to punish him after he had been so untrue
So she plotted and she waited, as her bitterness grew
Thinking about his ***** hands not touching one, but two

So she called upon her sister who was a witch of high skill
Asking her to help make sure that her husband would be killed
She didn't want to stab him, or feed him poisoned pills
She had to make it perfect since he'd made her so ill

The sisters figured out a way to quickly execute the king
In a way where no one else would likely suspect a thing
So they talked to the maiden who was part of this fling
And they told her of weapons that she was to bring

If the maiden didn't want to die, she had to **** the man
Whom she's been sleeping with, his life in her hands
And she felt so empty and could not understand
So she instead killed herself, going against the plans

This made the queen grow into a bitter rage
She engulfed the entire kingdom in a fiery cage
Burning down all that she knew since her early age
Now it's all just dust and everything decayed

This queen sits atop her throne
breathing in despair
Living life alone
as the Queen of Nowhere

Why can't I be
the spinny chair
in your office
for two?
There's nothing more
I want than to
matter to you.

Please, Please
let me be what I am
trying and dying to be:
Your lover that you'd
prefer to be some other,
with our kisses
covered in fleas.

I'm remembering to miss you,
but you'd have to
be here at some point.
I'd miss you so badly
I would dangle
your intestines over my mouth.
Can we kiss in the shade,
if we pretend I'm somebody else?

I can be the running car
in your suburban garage.
I want to steal you and feel you,
or just feel at all.

Catch me in your water,
smiling with the goldfish
and the flakes of snow angels
that bleed out every wish.

We can tremble
and mumble,
and stumble
in our darks.

There's no love that couldn't
hurt me now.