I remember the first time I laid my eyes upon your dark, golden-highlighted ringlets siting haphazardly on your nimble head. They were positioned above your flat, south Asian face, as if some wayward artist took his paintbrush and, in a fit of creative chaos, splattered and sputtered paint across a blank and endless canvas. Your hair represented the kind of sweet, quiet entropy that people needed in their lives. The great offense the artist had committed by being so reckless with such a delicate subject could be forgiven, however, because he surely acted as such simply because he had previously exhausted himself whilst meticulously creating your enrapturing eyes. Round cerulean orbs, speckled with bits of yellows and greens with a péridot ring centered around a pitch black pupil that represented the contents of your dispassionate heart. This is not an accurate description of the man who holds my unrequited love, however. You have achieved this sort of romantic, majestic rendition of beauty through the bias of my foolish heart and through my patronage of the arts. A typical person would do much better to portray you as nothing more than a hellish brute who is in desperate need of a haircut and a perhaps a larger assortment of clothing rather than torn, raggedy jeans and hand-me-down heavy metal t-shirts.

From my rotting body, flowers will grow, and I will finally be beautiful.

The marigolds that will bloom will not flee and vanish from the glow of the sun
They will aspire and capture its power, ever basking in its majesty unlike all that I have done
For they are enduring and evergreen, quite a contradiction to someone always on the run

Helianthus will burgeon from my corpse in the Autumn, cordial, acquiescent and jolly
Luminous hues of gold, superiority in the form of a blooming seedling, free of worldly folly
Irresistible to butterflies and feathered creatures, who shall evermore adore the perennial dolly

Snowdrops with delicate pedicels will pepper the frost polishing over my long corroded flesh,
An impeccable ability to synthesize with the world effortlessly, so that I may at last mesh
Nevermore will I acquiesce to let the world negligently toss me about, instead the world will thresh

Irises in the spring will be next to transcend, ripe with nonconformity rooting from their eccentric peridot petals
For the world encompassing them may be wrapped in blissful ignorance, but  they will forever hesitate to settle
They realize that life is for naught, putrescence is inevitable, so why even make a vain attempt to mettle

As sure as the sun will ascend, the summer will materialize, and the sun's glimmer will rage from dusk until dawn
For the world will strive on, long after I am gone, and my effulgence on the Earth is perpetually withdrawn

I am not fearful of death because in death there is ignorance and blissful uncertainty
From my rotting body, flowers will grow, and I am in them and that is eternity.

To be a human being is to be riddled with thousands of imperfections.
Full of flaws; scrapes, spots, and scars cover broken and bruised skin.
But robots need not fear and fret about fixable, trivial defections.

Humans perpetually throw themselves at cold, apathetic, greedy clinicians
Only to be given terrible news and told there is no cure for a horrid death.
Meanwhile, robots bask in the glow of love from a passionate technician.

Humans can never agree when it comes to the dealings of the heart.
Always one-sided, they take turns ruthlessly destroying each other.
Robots, oblivious to the issues of any and all feeling, live freely.

Naive humans will work tirelessly, only to see nothing but certain failure,
But life has never once benefited those of us who are currently living.
So, humans crafted robots, to always succeed where they could not.

How can somebody who is regarded as being so fantastically creative, destroy so much?
Perhaps it's not that I'm creative, perhaps it's just that I have a talent for picking up the all the jagged, crumbled pieces.

Nostalgic for familiar feelings and guilty pleasures,  still so keen on the awe-inspiring rush.
When you awaken in the morning with all that dried blood in your nose,  you wonder how much longer you have until life ceases.

Resisting the gruesome yearning for ripped flesh and the cold feeling of the blood gush.
How much longer can I persevere alone? How many more days do I have to survive till my quality of life is increased?

These emotions are weighing me down, beating me up, my heart is literally crushed.
I can see the rays of light peeking out behind the clouds, and I'm so terribly desperate for any sort of  peace.

Waiting and watching, begging for a sign that this world is even capable of being just.
I used to wait for you, because I knew you'd be there. Now it seems I'm just waiting for any form of a release.