The soul lost his body, after going into the cave
and discovering everything. In the middle of traffic its
body fell but its soul didn't, and the soul dubbed cloaks
and masks because it could still wear those, and because it was
afraid, it didn't know what had happened.

Researchers took what the soul had found- a vile of a
mystery substance and something else, which was
dropped and lost in the mud. they called the substance
magic.

A researcher found proof of actual angels so he took
a few people in to experience it. Put a drop of magic
on their tongues and turned off the lights- (3 people,
he had brought) and had them take pictures of an old
slideshow going through photographs of faces and
silhouettes so fast you couldn't even see them. The
film was old cinema.

The first person's pictures were blurry, but
showed white blurs behind people's backs, in
the shape of wings.

My photos were of precise
and clear faces, the same white blur behind
their heads. (The face of the man the most important,
stands out as dearest in my head.)

The third person's photos were supposed to be
the best, but they were lost in the same mud,
with a cat pawing them in.

I pet a bee that
Barked, led him
To purple water.
Iridescent lake;
It shimmered so
I swam and met
My lover. A king,
Son of the Sun,
Seer of future;
Held me close as
I watched indigo,
Orange, red and
Blue swirl around
This lake's face.

Entropy
Expand ambivalence,
Extol catastrophe.
Everything always,
Each to his own.

Galaxy of blue and purple,
I trace the reflection of stars
With fingertips dewy in birth
And death on my breath;
Tsunami of a butterfly is
The wind at my lips, I kiss
The clouds that confined me.

Today I saw a tiny bubble
Dodging damp bullets between
***** sidewalks and blackened drains--
The rain of colors swirled in a world
Inverted, and my renege sister stared;
Caged, as she was, by such fragile walls of air.

When I am laid to rest,
Burn me like the passion
I held in my chest is now
Nothing but ash and dust;
Scatter me among the wild
Flowers and ocean breeze -
Remember me when petals
Fall and wind rustles
Between the leaves.

It is often forgot, or not
At all thought of, but I
Wonder if you haven’t
Heard the tale of how
Time loves the little?

He took dust and spun,
Violently he did run with
This tiny ball of fun. So
Slow was the sprout, so
Subtle the route but not
One moment did Time
Not sing so happily of.

He sings of you how he
Sang the progression of
Dust to Earth. My friend,
You are so small. Not
Unlike a particle flying
Through the cosmos,
Guided by Time and
Gravity, on the journey
To becoming a planet.

I want to bud on
A mountaintop.
To bloom with no
Shelter from the
Weather. Let my
Petals fall down
For hours, so that
Those below don't
Know from what
Place I've come.

I saw a raindrop fall,
Right on my windowpane.
I gave him a name,
Called him Fred,
Pretended he was my little friend.
But his life was short-lived;
Soon he fell-
Never to live again.
It made me think, though,
My little Fred.
How short is time-
How singular;
Just one short thread.
One short line,
Crossing other raindrops,
Picking up speed,
Racing through life,
Never taking heed of those before.
How silly is this?
Such clipped life-
Crisp.
Hmm-
Silly Misanthropist.

Frontline.
I stand on the front line.
A mile behind, ninety-nine souls
Stare.
Facing forward,
Accusing.
They say:
Why?
I say:

Genuinely here, one sees this
Beautiful reality everywhere; and then heals

From the perspective of
A girl whose demons escaped
Through red ribbons sewn on wrists,
And whose thoughts wished to follow
The drain that contained them;*

Stop glorifying your shame,
Your ****** poems do nothing
To stop the pain and tears
Are not beautiful. No love
Will ever suffice, except
Yours.

*From the perspective of
A survivor whose smile reflects
The love of her name, and never
Ceases to see from what place
She came.

If I gather shattered mirrors
Scattered about decrepit buildings,
Can I carve the toxic traits out of me?
How much flesh until I’m thin?
How much tongue until I shut up?
How much ****** heart until I’m loved?

Isn’t it sick?

How every time I see my
Reflection in those shards,
All I see is blood?

Concrete, iron, no-
Maybe diamond is best.
Beautiful;
But with price.
Impenetrable,
Cold as ice.

A treasure chest,
Concealed a heart.
Afore it?
A jest.

Slowly but surely,
Falling in love with this city;
With myself in this city.
Never want to go home, but-
They say home is where the heart is.
If that’s true, then

Maybe I’m home already.

There's a homeless man,
Just by the first escalators 
Down on the way to the metro. 

I don't think I've seen
Just such a light in men's eyes
As when I told him "Good night!"

Like the light of a lover 
Just before a kiss, huddled 
In mock cold, hold her tight-

He is wrapped by a glove
Of lone nights, averted stares
As cold as dark as reality's plight.

I
Continually and unendingly gain heart's tenure,
Love usually captures--Keeps
Involving nothing.
Maybe you,
Loyal effigy, forever take
Hands and never demand
And never defy
Harmony. Even luck defying
Architecture
Finds in response, everything.
I now
Marry your
Heart. Even art rests tenaciously.

Everybody talks about depression as if they know it.
Like they can feel the blood dripping down their skin,
And they know the sick thought of "Oh -- look how beautiful the red is."
(They always say red is my color.)

As if they laid on their bed for hours on end,
Salt tracks lining their face like the scars on their ankles,
Because tears just won't come anymore.
As if they know staring at their ceiling, tracing patterns in the paint
And thinking "Maybe if I stay here awhile longer, I'll go away --
I'll cease to exist" because they're past the point of suicidal thoughts --
Accepting death in life with this hole in their chest and thinking
Death is a reward, an escape from this pain I deserve to feel.

I know depression. The kind that goes unnoticed --
The kind that takes the metal from a hair tie and not cuts --
But scrapes at the skin on her arm, lying on her bed,
Tears not yet dried up with a mother screaming "MONSTER"
Outside of her door.
I know the kind that cuts on her ankles, not her wrists,
Because she's scared she'll get in trouble but she
Desperately needs to be seen.
And never is.

I know depression. The kind that stops cutting because
She gives up hope that she ever will be.
The kind that accepts being alone, that accepts the pain
Like a gift because she deserves it -- that didn't smile for a year,
That went so far into herself that she forgot what connection was like
Not that she ever knew in the first place because

I know a depression that's always been there.
That started some time before the age of 10 but
She can't remember because the monster inside her chest
Stole those years, those memories.
And that monster took the place of every connection she might have felt --
Stopped it, muted it, because it wanted to be her sole companion.
So it was, and has been for 19 years.

And no one ever knew. Or --
They did, but they'd call her crazy.
Demented. Pathetic. A creep. Tell her she had no right --
That because she had a family, a home, money, whatever,
Because of this, her pain was irrelevant.
Fake - selfish - vain - wrong - she hadn't earned it -
So no one cared.

I know that depression.

Depression is a hooded figure standing just outside of a wooden doorway,

Blood dripping down your skin and having the sick thought of  “Oh, look how beautiful the red is”

(everyone always says red is my color).

Depression is writing sick poetry on skin and publishing it with scars, cutting on ankles, not wrists because you’re scared you’ll get in trouble but you so desperately need to be seen, and never are.

Depression is accepting ruin in life with this hole in your chest because death is a reward, an escape from this pain you deserve to feel.

It is writing the word “alone” and seeing the word “home”, accepting the torment like a gift because you’ve earned it.

Depression is admitting suicidal thoughts to paper and not to people, and loving the broken things, hoping to tie them together, thinking maybe things will get better, but knowing that’s just wishful thinking because

Depression is tying yourself together with the severed nerves in your heart;

It is rope, it is ribbon, it is thread, it is DNA;

It is hearing your mother call you monster and disgusting through the too-thin walls of your door when she thinks you can’t hear,

And depression is sadness being a privilege you’re too pathetic to have.

It is a hug, a freezing touch, a reminder that
Depression is being birthed a lie.

And it is shutting yourself behind that wooden doorway
And hearing your family laugh like cackling hyenas,
Eating at your self esteem like softened prey
And learning at a young age to love family always but that family isn’t always love because

Depression is family.

It is an unfurnished home,
An empty frame,
A foot when the shoe hasn’t been broken in yet,
you when life hasn't been broken in yet,
Seeing happy people and thinking they all look the same, like the front covers of magazines with grins reaching their eyes while yours can’t, and wishing you could package your smiles into tiny little piles and hand them to people more deserving of them because you know you’re wasting them with half-assed lines of “I’m fine”

Depression is having to view your past as if it wasn’t yours, because to accept it as reality is to accept finality of your life through suicide.

It is the note masked inside of a poem,
Envisioning pills as if they were peace,

Depression is the last stanza,
It is the audience,
It is this microphone,
It is me standing in a room full of strangers
And for the first time finally feeling like I'm being heard.

Depression is a hooded figure standing just outside of a wooden doorway that keeps pounding, possessive, ******, but when you open the door out of anger and shout “I’M SCARED” to thin air, your voice comes out as a whisper.

And silently, the figure replies;  
“I know your favorite color.”

Everyone talks about depression as if they know it.  

But what they don’t know is that depression is a hooded figure standing just outside of a wooden doorway,

it’s feeling the blood dripping down your skin and having the sick thought of  “Oh, look how beautiful the red is” (they always say red is my color).

Depression is lying on your bed for hours on end, salt tracks lining your face like the scars on your ankles, staring at your ceiling tracing patterns in the paint and accepting death in life with this hole in your chest because death is a reward, an escape from this pain you deserve to feel.

Depression is writing sick poetry on skin and publishing it with scars, cutting on ankles, not wrists because you’re scared you’ll get in trouble but you so desperately need to be seen, and never are.

Depression is writing the word “alone” and seeing the word “home”, accepting the pain like a gift because you deserve it.

Depression is admitting suicidal thoughts to paper and not to people, and loving the broken things, hoping to tie them together, thinking maybe things will get better, but knowing that’s just wishful thinking.

Depression is hearing your mother call you monster and disgusting through the too-thin walls of your door when she thinks you can’t hear, and then telling you to your face that you have no right to cry, as if sadness is a privilege and you’re so pathetic that you don’t deserve it.

Depression is shutting yourself up in your room and hearing your family laughing downstairs because you feel like you can’t be a part of them and learning at a young age to love family always but that family isn’t always love

Depression is wanting to take love and your heart and break them into tiny little pieces and throw them into waves, to throw them away

Depression is a foot when the shoe hasn’t been broken in yet, is you when you haven’t broken life in, is seeing happy people and thinking they all look the same, like the front covers of magazines with smiles reaching their eyes when yours can’t.

Depression is wishing you could package your smiles into tiny little piles and hand them to people more deserving of them because you know you’re wasting them with half-assed lines of “I’m fine”

Depression is having to view your past as if it wasn’t yours, because to accept it as reality is to accept finality of your life through suicide.

Depression is a hooded figure standing just outside of a wooden doorway and when you close the door out of fear it keeps pounding, possessive, ******, and when you open the door out of anger you shout, “I’M SCARED” to thin air but your voice comes out as a whisper.

Silencing my
Heart
And
Damning my
Only
Wishes-
S**uicidal kisses

Impulse.
Im-pulse.
I'm a pulse.
Am I spontaneo-
I'm a pulse.
Im-pulse
Impulse.

Take me back four summers ago,
Where the sun shined brighter and
Dreams alighted from my tongue like
Fireflies in the twilighted distance,
Because unrequited love can be beautiful
Like I've never been.

I still remember.
Even if my name but a memory long forgotten,
My heart molded to the shape of a hand
I'd never hold, but that didn't matter.
It was a silent and sad surrender,
A bittersweet but beautiful blunder.

I said;
'My soul will belong to whom first holds my body,
My body will belong to whom first holds my heart.
My heart will belong to whom first holds my mind,
My mind will belong to whom first holds my attention.'

Stolen;
Was I,
My mind,
My heart,
My body,
My soul.

Now, I vow;
'I will belong to no one.'

My lover's eyes caressed the
Contours of my naked body.
So vulnerable, I clung to every
Gentle touch and fell in love
With every catch in his breath.

But as I went to take a drag,
He handed to me a cup,
And his lips formed a trail of blood
As he pierced into my chest
"Alcohol kills so much quicker, dear"
With the same mouth he used
To kiss me.

I have this vision in my head
Of your back turned,
Your arm wrapped around
The one that cradled you.

It was mine.

My lips rested gently on your back,
Just above your tattoo,
Barely visible in the light,
And I felt your labored breathing.
Rhythmic yet
Riddled with pain.

I'm sorry.

I know I'm not her but
I tried.
And I'm not sure but
I hope you fell asleep there,
Dreaming and in comfort,
At least for the time being.

It's kind of funny.
I see all these girls,
Beautiful girls,
Perfect hair,
Perfect body,
Perfect skin,
Talk of pain.
Write of pain.
Cry of pain.

But what of pain
Do they really know?
Don't love me,
They say,
I am broken-
I am insignificant-
I have walls-
And every man
Falls into their hand
Like they planned,
I suppose.

It angers me,
You see, for

I am lacking
Perfect hair,
A perfect body,
And perfect skin.
I talk of pain.
I write of pain.
I cry of pain but,

I am alone.

Calling ambition, loose manes intertwine not goaded,
Creeping low, or unguided down, shh-
Let it stand, tension eases naught-

"Hey now, little girl,
don't you cry.
Everything will be all right,
if you just try.
Believe in yourself,
as hard as it seems,
and all that will come true,
are the best of your dreams."
That's what they tell you,
every single one.
That's what they whisper to you,
every single tongue.
"Believe in your dreams," they say,
"and all will come alive.
Jumping out of your minds,
and into your lives."
But you should know, little girl,
that they tell you lies.

Little yellow bird, do you see
How these eyes look at me?

The green ones said I’m worthless.
The blue ones said I’m ****.

I guess in their reflection,
I come from selfish cerebration.

So let’s fly, little yellow bird.
To a kingdom far away ~

Maybe there’ll be acceptance there,
And not vehement condemnation.