Natten kribler ind
under min hud
og medbringer de
negative tanker
I morgen er endnu en dag
og jeg vil bare
*sove

Hendes negle er perfekt formede og lakerede sorte
(hendes fingre knækker, når *** bladrer i bogen)
Hendes hår falder naturligt ned ad ryggen med de små tjavser
der former hendes ansigt
(hendes hoved føles tungt men tomt)
Hendes stemme er let og lyder af klokkeklang
(hendes indre stemme skriger evigt)
Hendes smil kan smelte enhver, og tænderne er en perlerække
(hendes spejlbillede har ikke set et smil længe)
Hendes ben er kilometerlange og giver hende en svævende gang
(hendes ben er blå af selvskyldige ****)
Hendes latter klinger gennem lokalet
(hendes tanker griner ad hende selv)

His name purred on her lips; 
She loved the way it
Rolled around on her tongue,
Loosened her vocal chords 

Every time she said 
his name aloud,
It felt as though she were 
Becoming more and more
Well versed in him; 
His character,
His very being

Bliss was sitting close on the cerulean carpeted floors between colorful bookshelves at the library. As she skimmed and scanned for artistic advice and techniques, I was intrigued by the history and works of Michelangelo. We exchanged alluring glances and subtle smiles between the silent absorption of information. I carried her books for her from the checkout counter to her car.
Life was a fairy tale, a fantasy, a novel in the romance section.

Contentment was cuddled next to her on a mattress with one hand wrapped around my torso and the other gently playing with my hair. She told me not to let her forget that her library books were due soon. She excitedly exclaimed that we'd have to go back and search for more.  
Life was the occasional poem she allowed me to read and the words that spilled from her mouth in sweet songs.

Angst was asking her to come to the library with me to search for a good book because even in forced silence I enjoyed her company. I was nervous that her response of "maybe one day" was a premeditated broken promise and that her feelings had faded like the inspiration for my old stories that have been tucked away for years in the attic.
Life was a mystery novel with cliffhangers and hidden clues.

I traced patterns on her shoulder with my fingertips and studied her face as she stared silently at the ceiling for hours.
Finally, with a somber voice and blank expression, she spoke to me.

"my library books are overdue."

I'm beginning to think that her abandonment is as well.

crops on the badlands
I do not yield

hot, pressed fingers
no diminishing resolve
and yet curiosity prevails

the mist in the morning
the sigh at dusk

it wins out against all thought
nam myoho renge kyo

They sell slavery
It's dressed in selfishness
It's called a treat.

We are worthless so we
purchase.

And here we are, a bunch of
  bad poets writing bad poetry
   liking each others thoughts while
    hating our own words, trying to
     keep ourselves open and free in
      a world full of cages and traps, pens
       full of ink, thoughts full of rage, a blank
        white surface being turned into a stage and
          we're yelling and screaming in vain as another
            bad poem dies on the page...