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mel Aug 2018
What if you were a species,
That was born,
For the sole purpose of being consumed by a higher power.

Some of us,
Were born to be consumed by the rays of light,
Shining through the cracked windows of our broken homes.

I, however, take flight like a moth,
I was born,
For the sole purpose to be consumed by the rain,

& by the blanket of the night.

I was born to be consumed whole,
Come nightfall,
By the wave of thoughts that flood my head.
mel Aug 2018
What makes us human,
Is features made from the small minded.

For we are limited by society’s restraints,
Against the free minded.

I once read,
A riddled story,

About a man who was rich in worldly objects,
And a man who was rich in contentment,

Cherishing every moment,
The world breathed.

Who is more rich?

The man who trampled on the vulnerable,
Or the man who collected pennies off of the sidewalks,

So he could mend the trampled.
mel Aug 2018
He held the gun up to her forehead, and told her to sing for him for the last time,
With trembling hands, and her voice shaking with fear she sang.

'You are my addiction,
You are my love.
You are the poison,
That fills my lungs,'

He collapsed on the ground beneath him, as he held on to one last fleeting thought.

You are my addiction,
You are my love.
You are the poison,
That fills my lungs.

Then he grabbed her hand, that held the promise of their lives together. Then he sang.

'You were the poison
That filled my lungs.'

Then, without hesitation, he pulled the trigger.
mel Jun 2018
Neglected souls,
Fearing not death,
But life itself.
Chained to our torment,
And known to most as menaces.

Forcing our pain on the innocent.

Maybe, just, maybe,
We don’t have to be misunderstood.

But alas, our fate is solitude leading to our deaths.

For, we are the people who make you lock your doors,
And fear for your lives.

We are criminals.
mel Jun 2018
It was on top of me like a force begging to be reckoned with.

It crushed into me, bleeding into me, as I bled into it.

Red, so bold against the black & white of this world.

Was this my fault?
My doom.

I was dead.
She was dead.

But then she clawed her way up from the dead,
Seeping our of my skin, with every breath taken.

The heat was suffocating.
mel Jun 2018
Sunken lovers,
Trapped in the bottom of their glasses,
Put their bottoms up,
For the fragments of themselves that they’ve lost under these bottles.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m a murderer,
Am I the one who lead them to their deaths.

For after my life was pried from my torn hands,
They drowned themselves in whiskey bottles and tears.
mel Jun 2018
Fragmented thoughts,
m u t i l a t e d     b r a i n
Torn hands,
n u m b
A sympathetic glare,
g l a z e d   e y e s
Muted lips,
s e m i p e r m a n e n t l y
A centipede of bones,
s p i n a l   c h o r d
A flicker between life and death.
i n   h e r   e y e s
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