Am i too young to die
or is that not my choice

I do not fear death
but i do not welcome it with open arms

I am too young to die
but then, isn't everyone?

With spiteful words
they chase her down the hall
with cruel intentions
their feet are more nimble than hers
so she asks for mercy
but the answer is no.

With sputtered words
she tries to convey emotions to him
that she herself doesn't understand
fear tints her vision
so she asks for love
but the answer is no.

With solemn words
printed on white paper
she tries to explain
why she can't carry on
so she asks for forgiveness
how could they say no.

Long table laden in lace
mismatched silverware
chipped plates
cloth napkins and crystal cups
beneath a canopy
of knotted branches
framed between two hallowed trunks
snaggled twigs cling
to lanterns and ribbons
strung across the foliage
for the Moonlight Feast.

When the sun sinks
the guests begin to arrive
with their flowing gowns
thin veils and hats
lace gloves
masked faces
shaped like wooden birds
slender heeled black boots
daintily stepping through grass
to find a seat
at the Moonlight Feast.

As they sit
drinking their wine
tittering through
frozen smiles
one man walks
wearing a frown.
the woman by his side
pale as the moon
hair like the sun
they sit at the head
of the Moonlight Feast.

They look nearby
at the less traveled road
where a young man
walks with not a penny
they run like wolves
on their hands and knees
and strike him down
limb from limb
he is torn
and brought
to the Moonlight Feast.

The frowning man
gave a toothy smile
and as well did his queen.
The guests all ate
of the flesh of a beggar
who they slaughtered
alone on the street.
Their titters all turned to
shrieks and howls
while the moon shined bright
over these Moonlight Beasts

Shy girl
Hiding behind
Thick lenses
Dark frames

Shy girl
Hiding behind
Thick books
Long pages

A boy
Across the room
Fruitful glances
Stuttered glances

The boy
Across the room
Likes her back

6:30
Glaring
Red
Angry numbers
Glaring
Red
Screeching sound
Hit snooze
9 times
Spread my arms
And fall forward
Into deranged images
Of the prefrontal cortex
Into dreams
Clouds
Flying
Dying right before waking up
7:30
Glaring
Red
Angry
Morning.

Dreaming is like swimming in the most beautiful sea
And waking up is like drowning.

Giacomo Casanova
**** of the 18th century
But he loved the person
More than the *****
'Spoiling' virgins
As if it was one sided.
And not bothering to suppress his
Love
For both human
Anatomy and the
Human heart
When he was done
With you, there was no break up
No casual washing of hands.
He would hook you up
with some rich bloke
He didn't throw you
Into the trash
He threw you through
The top window of
The palace
Where's my Casanova?
Why can't I be
******
And
Loved
Why would I be the
****
When it takes two to
make love.

Dear stormy mornings
On the sea
You make me happy
With so many shades of grey
Tucked into one line of sight.
I can see power in your
Subtle waves that almost look
Opaque
And the wind
Blows across you
The sea birds
With their nimble wings
Serve as proof to your majesty
When they struggle
Against your gales.
The stony beaches
Smooth pebbles
And large rough boulders
Match the flavor of the line
Where the sky
meets the water.
Dear stormy mornings
On the sea.
You are incredibly
Beautiful.