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the flower  left undisturbed
by the bee,
but yet a part taken,
a part
stolen to
feed its wants,

you were like that,
coming in dreams,
never realized the destruction
until after the war.
Im so ******* done with feeling this way, I am so done with always begging and pleading with others to hold me, to love the soft tender parts of me, as if admiring all that makes art beautiful, this stupid society obsessed with youth, and money, and looks. How can I find myself, when I do not know who I am. I am stuck here fearing death, death of others, and aging, will I realize how beautiful the swaying trees were when I am 92? Or will I die tomorrow with unpublished dreams, unpublished aspirations, watching time eat away at my face. I want to be ok. I want to merge with god,  and I want him to cradle me and tell me he loves me and tell me I did ok, that I tried to find the good in others, that I was nothing special but I tried to find beauty, I tried to be kind, **** this **** this sm.
yet I am not afraid,
every waking moment
spent either at the feet
of god or the feet
of my fear,

will she be alive tomorrow?

the deaths of the physical uncountable
I dare not think of six years ago,
the pain to return there,
the pain to live again
a childhood where
I could climb trees and
not be afraid of

I have picked the
prettiest flowers to love,
and god forbid
you take them from me,

how painfully slow
life moves,
how sadly fast
does it go,

let me be,
let me be,

the world that did not let
my childhood last long enough
to  double digits,
and beyond.
Jan 8 · 142
garland roses
I was sitting by the shore
love, when I thought
about it clearly,
how the children
must of cried,
roses on bodies
they loved so dearly.
Sep 2019 · 388
The pain of others
Mygreatestescape Sep 2019
I do not have the will to speak
if I were to string two sentences together
my voice would crack with the grief
wild evil rain, thunder, unable to die
unable to live, a tangle of madness
utterly alone surrounded by prophets,
the horizon rises and yet not healed,
my voice has barely begun to
sing the ballad of my destruction,
I wish to be utterly alone, to have no
hearts to rest in, the world a barren
of nothing, gently like death or cold,
I am tired, burdened by my existence,
the roots where my dreams grew have
darkened with envy, give me the caul and
the cord loop it around the kissable neck
of my youth, and hang me like a ******,
here comes death
she’s been swimming in my bones.
Been a sad summer.
Jul 2019 · 1.3k
a graduation from violence
Mygreatestescape Jul 2019
I remember when
the moon cried within my mouth,
the night we first met
when you watered heaven
with your tears,
desire before the desire,
primitive like digging
for mother in the dirt of earth,
a death that came from loving too
much, a death that came to tremble,
a death that is a swell of blue,
with hungry ghosts who crawl
over the calluses where you
dipped your fingers into my carcass,
enough holiness in the hands
but the head is where the halo rests,
with heavy blood, a vowel, a consonant,
an open mouth, the stench of rose water
as she swings her arms at me,
a fist aimed, a hand opens,
and her anger's brute force resting gently on my cheek,
when she is asleep, she goes to places,
so far far away from the sinews of my heart,
it's a crime to want her, clawing through dirt
to find maternity,
but it is a bigger crime she does
not stay with me the way I follow her
footsteps through hell and bruises,
she sleeps gently, darkly, and deeply,
the tide of her healing,
I am tired of her breathing,
far away there is a girl who takes
revenge for me,
she is iridescent and strong,
the vines she grows are pagodas reaching,
the geisha who is unbalanced in mind,
the body self destructs,
I have been dead for a few hours,
I dream in death that they scored
the lake and found her body,
I am tired of her breathing,
bloodlet as a ghost would, at vigil
light with youth blighted,
they would carve her into cadaver,
I reach for her throat now,
I am angry, the ocean is my mistress,
in the rot of my anger I am the
skirt that kisses the thigh in the pews,
half poltergeist and half godless goddess,
no, but I am the girl still with
blistering blues on her back,
who rises like fog-dulled stars,
never daring to say
I am tired of your
let us both die here
in this poem,
I won't say it out loud,
but the willow weeps,
the willow weeps,
she sinks a hook through
the mouth of my moon,
and she drags me into water,
each night
each night
I say oh honey, sweet heart,
darling, I pray for
love, I let boys touch my
hand in class because I
do not wish to show them my back,
and I hate it all,
and I hate it all.
each night I ask the god
of my ceiling for something
new, to make the chamber
of my well intentioned wound
into nothing but nostalgia,
but god above, he just nods
and tells me to get on with it,
so I become a river
and drown each person
within me,
but even in death their
bodies and bones float to the
leaving me.
leaving me,
and yet she still sits their breathing,
and I cannot bring myself
to wish death upon her,
the mother I dug from the earth
on a Saturday, whose tendons
I had crafted from the ceiling god's
memory is the home,
and the base is the violence,
the moon that is now
fizzling in my marrow,
the losses uncountable on my heart
one day leading to it's demise,
and yet I am loved enough
that still I wander into other
people's fields begging them
for spare change,
the heart starts to eat
the self,
traveling through the desert of my
destruction to bring
to you my love.
I am many, countless,
I am all,
that sinks into
the sad cycle of her violence.

Ophelia lying
in a mirage, heart soaked,
finally she breathes
in the water,
the moon on her lips
shining like an herring.
Jul 2019 · 387
life is not new york
Mygreatestescape Jul 2019
fall is the season I come back to
in the summer,
get off the train
and into the anorexic arms of my hope,
she holds me there like Goliath
my pebble made of dust,
it was I acetic and weak
who lets her breath again,
I am stuck in her teeth
like a song she picks at,
love arrives to hold her then,
and love leaves when it must,
she holds me in her jaws,
harrowed, pathetic,
I shake in the metallic contraptions
of her heart,
my lover's kiss drips
like tea into my mouth,
remembering this I want
to run to Dakota, maybe
let us go to Verona,
I tell her this as she crumbles again,
it is midnight,

the station is empty.
Jul 2019 · 722
Mygreatestescape Jul 2019
I don't mind
the world  ending
each day it ends for me
in the morning
I am still here.
going all out on lowering expectations these days.
Jul 2019 · 551
blood of the goddess
Mygreatestescape Jul 2019
take the spear
and give me a lyre,
I would sing your praises
to heaven alone,
dip your toes
into my soul's fire,
darling where you go,
so shall I go.
And so I fall in love just a little ol' little bit
Every day with someone new
Jul 2019 · 1.0k
i crawled from eden
Mygreatestescape Jul 2019
in this city there is intense
friendly, charming,
but nothing behind the eyes.
the mask of sanity


something terrible
comes a calling,
there was a ringing in my blood,
maybe I should go a-killing,
you look lovely choking
on your tongue,

you are evil.
in this town,
you must do evil
but softy,
-caress your lover
then stab the *****,

pain is intellectual,
the superior modus operandi
to happiness,
only evil is worth the time.

an accident happened,
the neighbour is dead,
let's go outside

all at once

and watch
and watch

you are stuck in the machinery,
in this city,
we watch as your body

into god.

in the city
there is eternal happiness,
serene, perfect bliss

your children grow like guileless
they drink in the
light of
your deformed god,

praise violence secretly,
praise despair
when mourning
for too much of it
and you might
as well swing from ropes,

in the city though,
the tourist comes
to see eden at last,
here the dallying,
here the breathing,
synchronized in our
never knowing of
war, famine,

we **** ourselves with smiles,

the joy
of successful sacrifice,

I cannot do it justice
this city,
this beauty
iridescent and benign,
the cup of elixir,
weeping mystics
bow in reverence,
pious housewives
turn to the saints
adorning the doors of our households,
and at night the
wife does not slam doors,
she opens them
and sits on her own accord,
and the husband does not drink
he eats the food of the lord,
and does not throw plates,
and the children are beautiful cherubs,
they sing of heaven,
and water the plants with their tears,

the table is ready,
let us feast upon the idiosyncrasy of our

in the city there
is but one flaw,
there is child who weeps for pain,
he is half starved,
***** matter covers him,
his gangly arms
ripping at the bread,
his eyes droop and
are shadowed by
he urinates upon himself,
and eats
at his hand
when dinner is not given,
he stares at walls,
and his skin is littered with lice,
absent mindedly he scratches
until blood is drawn
and licks it in thirst
- he was never taught

but the happiness
of the city depends upon the child,
the suffering of one
for the betterment of
a million others,
the experts say
it is illogical
to sacrifice all
for the improvement of
one, who
has no chance of
regular function,

he is but a child,
but he is the child of the city,
and his pain feeds
our happiness,
his gentle cries
for his mother
rest upon our dinner
and make us salivate,

he is our child,
nameless yes,
but he is so wonderfully delicious,
his flesh
squelching under
the brute force
of crowbars --our salvation,

but in this city
there is no guilt,
we fatten our children
for strong futures,
we do not shake our

for we love to shake our boy
when he cries,
and hit him and


as they beat him

such beauty
such beauty

tears spring to the eyes.

for we know the child
must be there,
the happiness that
radiates through the
depend upon his
jutting bones,
in his misery
lies the knowledge of our
the cures to our diseases,
the terrible
justice of our boon,

but some
when they are brought
to the room
of the boy,
simply look,
and go sit under a brook
for a minute
then they get up and


walk away

from this city of stardust
and fairytales,
and eternal sunshine,
where they go,
no one knows the better,
maybe someplace far
far more lovely,
maybe someplace wretched,
it is possible they cease to exist
for they never come back...

this city,
this city

is beautiful

but if I told you about it
you wouldn't believe me, would you?
Jul 2019 · 421
a little death
Mygreatestescape Jul 2019
beneath the sinew of
my narcissism lies a brain,
you might call it a soul,
and when I sit down
with my mother breathing
down my arteries,
I tell her I might
be a writer,
and then she laughs,
and then I die little.
you don't go to hell,
you carry it around like a corpse,
dragging and shouldering,
praying to a god
asking if he too
is even there at all,
I tell her
I am not insane,
it is just that I have been
cursed to feel everything
so deeply,
it leaves me in shambles
I go over and sit
again pretending to be
a writer,
my neurons rotting
and collapsing,
what was the word
I ask?

as my flesh stretches
over my divinity,
a god that cocoons
himself in my innards,

the news scream of genocide
and progression, side note on corruption,
the neighbour
screams over the news
to her sociopathic lover,
crawling in and out
of each other's flesh,
make me better,
make me good again,
and I wonder what to write about,
how to convey the death
decay the stagnant water,
the rotting weeds
reaching, forever reaching,
as icarus rises
to his destiny,

the city fills with rats,
bright lights all
wobbling towards the rotting
flesh of tomorrow
bones over sinews,
fill the sacks of meat with food,
the eyes with electricity,
the heart with indifference,
and the ducts with tears,
the graveyards
with their corpses,
rise the putrid smell through
blinds and knocks
upon windows
of homes long empty,
and the mind
fills with ghosts
that heave their bodies
against their ivory cage,

the muscles stretch reflectively
the smile,
always the smile,
the perfect response
is always
has been i'm fine,
but you could be
dying and they will still
ask you and that's what you
would say anyways,

my grandmothers rosary rests
gently on the fingers,
as i try to recall,
hold it like this she said
and focus on the inner god,
the soul always searching
for god,
the flesh always searching for flesh

and yet


May 2019 · 486
Mygreatestescape May 2019
Once I had died twice,
for beauty and for god,
both of which
seemed to be accustomed
to always result in loss,
in the open casket
air, the man
next to me asked,
"for love I had broken
my spine, and now
I am covered in moss"
- and I but barely
conscious, herd the sermon
said, when my
father kissed between my brow,
and laid me gently to rest.
Apr 2019 · 1.3k
Notre Dame
Mygreatestescape Apr 2019
vos flèches clignotantes
(Your flashing spires)

vos dômes de glace
(Your domes of ice)

et ma peur du paradis éternel
(and my fear of eternal paradise)

vos reliques volées, vos os de porcelaine
(your stolen relics, your porcelain bones)

maintenant fait pauvre Bethléem entendre vos gémissements
(Now makes poor Bethlehem hear your moans)

vos châteaux vieillissants, vos portes nacrées
(your aging castles, your pearly doors)

exhumé dans les cendres du purgatoire
(Exhumed in the ashes of purgatory)
Good riddance.
Feb 2019 · 1.6k
a song
Mygreatestescape Feb 2019
In the summers when you were a boy,
you would take a mattress to the roof,
you would wake to the stirring of
leaves, the blue hydrangeas, cashmire
persimmon sunsets,
when you were a child your mother
would take you, her callouses running
like rivers over your skin,
her green eyes on fire,
don’t you remember?
It’s the same spot they buried your father

remember, the narrow lanes
where you could see dust gather
underneath bare feet,
people from the east in
their white cars;
in Belsen where
you could find god in a *******
and in Eurasia where we
steal like clever thieves,

in the night when the lights shone
for you, how you would hold your head
as the ache deepens within your skull,
maybe there is more to life than just the physical?

The moon is in Taurus,
you lie awake next to your mother
and you count the lines on her face,
in her aging you find your history,
in the filth there is always beauty

the world starts to erupt,
there are people whose voices like
molten cause revolution

this is the part you do remember,
the bombing, the deaths, the bodies.

you remember how faces of your neighbour, of mothers with their children
like apparitions of Venus,
can be glimpsed peaking out with their
azure eyes dying underneath
pillars and railing and soot,

you learn how to turn gas into midnight fog,
how you can turn empty shells into rocket ships that take you back to your mother,

you learn how bomb craters can become home and house warm bodies,
How clothes can rip like paper
when you are searching along shorelines
for home,

you realize no one wants you,
not you - but the idea of you,
the idea of who you could be

They have not seen the way your hands
shook when the sun caressed the parched
skin of your mother’s body,

now, you’re eyes close in prayer
your cheeks brushed with the godly red
of childhood,

but you do not know, child, that the
world does not work on prayer,
and has the ocean ever listented to the drop?

You forget how many centuries deep the ocean is,

but for you I pray,

I turn to God to atoms, to energy and divinity,

that the waters
their sails masting half way,
and you capsizing in hope,

I pray the ocean knows

I pray.
been a while.
Sep 2018 · 18.1k
suis-je en train de mourir?
Mygreatestescape Sep 2018
In the morning when
I have spent myself,
I am serene like
a hurricane,
--(I will call myself
a giant conspiracy
of lovers,
I took a step
without any feet,
the preacher
speaks of god,
of a childhood innocence
that was lost before
it begun,
the stillness of
the soul,
living in the
abyss of
my loneliness,
I cannot believe in
a god that lets
the world rot,
that lets flies die on windowsills,
but yet I believe in
a beloved that
makes me sweep
the ground,
stoop till my back aches,
who looks at me
without any eyes,
and brings tears
to mine,
everything that I ever
loved grows like
when I see this beloved,
if I know of love
--like a child,
I only know through
my beloved,

and yet,



god is a tattered
coat that my grandmother

to have you listen
to me -- that is my beloved,

spilling my tears onto
ginseng leaves,
dust gathers
like grime,
a second layer of skin,
watching Aphrodite rise
from homes riddled
by lust,

this whole nation cursed,
and yet here is mecca (Medina)
here is Bethlehem
where apples grow freely,
and Eden lies north,
where money rains onto

here lives the prowling
here Thebes rises
from the gold dust of
the Sahara ,
her salivating tongue
licks up our dissent,
and our leaders
drags Artemis by
her hair,
the sinners of
earthly lust,
Lucifer wears
armani suits
and defiles cherubs,

they have lit our
children on fire,
and have called
it a sacrifice,
we watched kindness
fall into the deep marrows
of the Styx,

living in a nation
of free will,
undressed free
will and
ravished her against her

my beloved
who wears my anger
like furs,
and milks the world
like a daunting king.
suis-je en train de mourir? - Am I dying?
Sep 2018 · 564
Mygreatestescape Sep 2018
you have
already begun
to hate me,

in the small
where the sun
meets the sea
Jul 2018 · 1.0k
I, Judas
Mygreatestescape Jul 2018
there are unhappy people,
particles of their mind,
slaves to their desires

people who hate roses
because they bloom in
all seasons,
they hate them because
they are afraid of being
they are afraid
of death
with its acidic

they fight
the rest of society,
because their unhappiness
thrives from

but my unhappiness is entirely
my own,
my vices,
the slow errosion
of my mind,
who do I take arms against?

it's not society,  it's you isn't it?

because I
was so weak,
I felt wounded
by happiness alone,

because things
that tasted sweet,
always taste bitter in
my mouth.

like corpses,
depraved of life,

of money

and of easy death.
Jul 2018 · 1.4k
the judgement of paris
Mygreatestescape Jul 2018
tu es venu
et ensuite tu es parti
                                   (you came,
                                             you left)

et pourtant les arbres se balancent encore,
et l'été respire
                              (and yet the trees still sway,
                                     and summer still comes)

tout ce qui reste est un étrange souvenir,
comme un rêve comme un
cyclope dans la nuit
                                              (all that remains is a strange longing,
                                                  memori­es that rose like cyclops in the
                                                                ­                               night)
les trappes du désir, les trous noirs
de nos âmes aiguisées                              
                         ­                                (the trapdoors of desire,
                                                         ­    the black-holes of our sharpened
                                                                ­                              souls)

si vous pouviez être dieu, et revenir - seulement
pour un moment, pour me dire que j'avais raison,
alors je ferais de vos mots mon épitaphe
                                                  ­         (if you could be god, and
               come back - if only for a moment, to tell me I was right,
                                      then I would make your words my epitaph)

mon amant violacé, comme une fleur
qui découle
bulboulement de votre tige,
vous avez mangé toute
la chapelure,
alors comment
vais-je vous retrouver?

                                                     ­    (my purpled lover, like  a
                                               bulbous flower protruding from it's
                                                                ­                                  stem,
                         ­                     you have eaten all the breadcrumbs,
                                                    ­so how will I find you again?)

et même si tu es passé
comme un
fantôme du soir,
nos âmes
avaient touché
et pour le premier
le temps que je pouvais voir les étoiles
aux yeux des autres.
                                                        (­ even if you had disappeared like
                                                                ­    an evening ghost,
                                                          ­            our souls had touched,
                                                        ­                      and for the first time
                                     I could see the stars in other  peoples' eyes)
They offered  Paris  gifts: Hera said if she were chosen fairest of all women, she would make him king of all men; Athena promised him victory in war; and Aphrodite promised him Helene in marriage. So he chose Aphrodite.
Jun 2018 · 508
Mygreatestescape Jun 2018
during the war
my neighbour,

(who owns Watson
made seven
thousand pills
and popped
into the warm
lips of salivating dogs,

who died

unknowingly in
streets and around

and my
gentle little
could tell and
did tell
each ear
what we were
fighting for,
as he took his cane
to mark

you from


we are two borders

"he could say"

but he didn't,

my aunt made
and scarfs
"for the soldiers"
she would say
her eyes
of fanatical want,
of scarfs
-- until she created for herself
a much painful hunch,

my aunt-the-hunchback,

and my father
would whisper
about the w a  r

he hoped,
hopingly that
I would

like a brave
of sweltering europe,
an honour,
if only he could, he would, he couldn't but if he could
he would and if only he could -- he would say

like most white men,
his heart
was too much salt

for my eyes,

and then

I would go lay over
the hill

and dream of


powder blue.
just a little thing for the opioid crisis.
May 2018 · 625
Mygreatestescape May 2018
So I continue to laugh
and to cry
and to pretend
that the
flowers were beautiful in
the spring
like a bipolaric

I feel the sun
on my back
scorching it’s existence
tearing at skin cells
like the stares of the
people in their cars

I live

for if I die

my mother’s tears will shame me.
My grandpa passed away and I found this poem inside one of his closets, translated from French.
Apr 2018 · 7.9k
Mygreatestescape Apr 2018
there once was a king,
with eyes like the sea,
pondering time beneath
an age old tree,
looking into a river,
checking the pilings
of his straight white teeth,

and upon this river,
with his wallowings
and tea,
there came a voice,
so soft and pristine,
"are you lost, oh master of the land?"

that at first glance he
a beautiful reflection,
submerged in the brook,

"Oh why yes I am!"

he said,
with stars in his eyes,
and a blush for the books,

and he told the reflection
of his castles and his
the will to die,
and the catalysts of
good health,
the drudgery and the liers,
the beauty of its spires!

and the reflection spoke softly,
it spoke of desire,
and it moved
as one,
making fun,
greedily drinking words
for the gin of the sun,

"my home -too- is a beauty,
oh you would love it my dear!"

said the reflection,
with eyes so clear,
and it spoke of the darkness,
the bleakness too,
the ruined ships,
and the deep inky blue,

and the king's fear grew,
with his hand on his chin,
such long reaching corals,
and jellyfish too,
dimmed the desire to
submerge into such
bluish hues,

but the two lovers,
how tragic!
for how could they
three words that belonged
to the shadows of yesterday?
and how could they unite
the sea and the land,
and prove their love in
the eyes of god's man?

One was all air,
and the other water,
a sacrificial stone,
and sheep for the slaughter,

"Oh love, such beauty, with eyes
so fair, the owner of my heart,
for you I will sacrifice air!"

and the reflection smiled back,
"of that you you must swear."

So the king in the shade,
caressed each grassy blade,
and  planned
and planned,
how to unite
the sea and the land,

and finally the king
sat up in horray,
for he would be the victor
of this fine day,
so he took down
a fine willow
and built a boat,
so his love,
his life would
forever be close
to his grand castle,
and its green
curtained tassels,

but the king had
an uncle,
as bony as could be,
who lusted for the throne,
found the king
sitting next to the sea,
and the king was drowned
before he could moan,
             he bobbed,
and  the king   died

there once was a king,
who lays under the sea,
with blank blank
and a throat full
of seaweed,
yellowing skin,
as fair as could be,
reaching out
for the world,
through the
abyss of the deep.
My grandpa always told me this 'fairytale', gave me nightmares for years to come.
Mar 2018 · 550
this is not a love poem
Mygreatestescape Mar 2018
Stuff my body,
each crevice with the flowers
of your pity,
so wherever I may
with my hands
shaking and
my weary eyes,
may these words
not seem like burdens

like catching the eye of
a stranger,
to catch heat in someone's
who evaluate
the ****** structures
of chance,
and marvel at natural
for if chance,
only chance,
has been merciful
to behold in you
outer beauty,
you will not suffer
the meager
words of their psalms

and if it is sins that
hold me in chains,
than let the weight
be too much to bear,
so I might have the humbleness
to turn to god,
for the world
as I saw it,
was as if the painter
had splattered
ink instead of art,
what a disaster
I fear it more
than the  unanalysed life,
I fear it more
as I see hatred
like infected zits
pop underneath
the prodding
of your bandaged guilt
-- I call for

you turned
feelings into theatre,
you turned your
words into syrup,
the audience
fed off hope that
you fuelled with empty
empty words,
so empty
and barren,
but they were sweet,
like apples at the top
of the tree,

but you see there
is a sea in people,
there is a sea ,
a tide in the soul,
of untamed wildness,
and threads that connected
nations upon our arms,
these words that made your
mind short circuit,

our only mistake is
that we looked for love
at the feet of those
that taught us how
to hate,

and looked for words
that only touched the surface,
when what we
really wanted
was to plunge into the
deepest darkest
parts of the
Humankind's aspiration for freedom cannot be controlled by any system. Any effort to destroy this aspiration becomes self-defeated within history. We witness this happening within our times.

The same passion for freedom burning like a flame in the depths of humankind gave birth to the great French Revolution. And then in the beginning of this century, we watched the tumbling of the Tsarist regime that had become a symbol of terror and tyranny.

But whatever systems have been built up on the ruins of [systems like] Tsarism, have not succeeded in fully preserving and understanding the rush and aspiration of human freedom. All these massive artifices show cracks. What an irony of our times that the same people who had raised our ancestors' flag of freedom, became the murderers of freedom.
Mar 2018 · 561
Mygreatestescape Mar 2018
And I fell in love
With life,
the stage, the act,
the verses,
the depression,
and those three men
who stood at the end
waiting for anything to happen,
who’s life’s purpose was to
wait for someone who had
yet to arrive,
a master dependent on his slave,
that I forgot that the curtain
was calling,
and I would be dragged back
from my performance,
from the musings
and clamour
into the backdrop
where I would disappear
like the actors before me
who the playwright
had crossed out
with his bejewelled hand,
I met strangers
and forgot names,
I cried before the audience,
they took it as satire
and laughed at my misery,
I stumbled and fell before
the feet of my critics,
in this platonic chaos
I savoured
time and I chased
apocryphal love,
-- let the curtains
fall and death
be my consanguinity.
En attendant Godot (Waiting for Godot) is one of my favourite literary pieces, it's gotten me through a lot of rough patches in life.
Mar 2018 · 3.0k
cancer is figurative
Mygreatestescape Mar 2018
I call you're mother
and tell her

where did all our
prayers go

they're snakes hanging
from our ceiling

counting down the
days until you go
to Elysian Fields

take a downturn
to our  rotten dreams

bébé you're just
soggy from
      the chemo
and all the tears
that rained down
to fix
you're sickle cells

I've lost all my musings,
my philosophies stripped
of life
as I watched
heaven die
in sheets of white

my skin
is filled with
your brother's,
your sister's
your mother's

veux-tu m'embrasser?

tell me
     you're happy
that you found
in death

that if you become
a number,
a story for my children

You won't hate me for
forgetting you

for is it as painful as
it looks
a face for
the books
and change
for the pharmacies

Please tell me you still love me
when we stood in
white  washed rooms
like silent paintings,
was our time
the entrance or the exit?

will you stay the night,
or is this all the fight you have
your skin is like a prison
your hands shake as you
clasp the glass of water
I wish
I had enough money in the pockets
of my hope
to hold you
two mirages reaching for
each other through the viel
of life
touching only for
an instance

while the sun pours
golden light
from your funeral urn.
I hoped until I lost the will to hope.
Mygreatestescape Feb 2018
systole, the eyes
that never saw,
the children who
made pillars out of
their tears,
building forts
out of fear
and pure wretchedness,
born in allleyways
and downgraded
to accidents,
eating from
the hand that
coloured their bodies
pure neglected art,
the beauty of their
red rimmed eyes
and yellowing
skin, like suns
that  grew from
their blackhole dreams,

who saw strangers on the
and when
their hands brushed
they called it -- "love",
who sobbed into
as tyrants
searched  for paradise
in the scars of
their misery,
their nightmares filled
with doctors who
would ask them
"where did they touch you"

Animals at a zoo,
a mere curiousity,
a mediocre pastime,
when they saw them
they thought of alcoholic fathers
-- a sub species of human,

they fell so far into the cracks
that they landed on earth
to experience our hell,
the versatile law
and our novelties,
the system raised a fist
and so did the fosters,
parental imposters,
and the child who deserved
the alters of Olympus
-- called it kindness,

their hearts suffered
in low ceiling rooms
and brick arched windows,
polished brass **** doors,
threaded traps of cobweb,
  A dose of sermons,
a memorial service the next,
children who dangled from ceilings,
suffocating on their self proclaimed
reptiles that grew in the skeletons of
their bodies,
suicidal for gold,
to be told
of flowers
and to be held
in the arms of a mother,
to be chased down
the streets like a flightless
while the earth drank
in their laughter,

kids that were once here
who breathed as if each
breath was thinning,

who became so small
that they disappeared.
One of my friends grew up in the foster system, its been painful seeing how much its changed her.
Feb 2018 · 1.1k
I, Sisyphus
Mygreatestescape Feb 2018
What beast do I dare speak of now?
the one that rocked in cradles,
that lived in the spines
of my bed,
that held me,
and drove
me to a bloodless
the one who lived in the
realms of my mind,
the one I called "god"
driving my intellect
to the marrows of sleep,
dreaming of dreams,
staring at ceilings
and lions that grew
from the ashes on the moon,
should I drown my innocence
with my lost convictions,
should I tell it
to come tomorrow,
to let it rest in the corners
of my mind?
And in these monsters
lived sounds
that drowned
the world,
and in it lived
the screaming of heaven,
for is it not fitting
to dream of a Utopian prison
when dreaming of
a pitiful God?

And yet I dare dream
of sinuous apple trees,
and acid rain,
to have my words
rest in your throat,
in your eyes,
for what is it
like to feel truly alive?

Monsters that run like
crowding in the streets,
eyes that made us dread
to be in our skin,
to peel off our
to die and to
imagine death in
I know only of
what is left,
not right.
In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
- William Blake (The Tyger)
Feb 2018 · 728
sticks and stones
Mygreatestescape Feb 2018
There lies in
the clasp of language,
a vivid power,
when ******
turns into collateral
when ****
becomes interrogation
When you call
mutually assured
when you
trample millions
and call it proxy warfare,

you take  
a part of language with you,
you twist it into
an unrecognizable heap

You take away my
ability to feel

to grieve

to care at all.
The world is half war half peace.
Feb 2018 · 486
pandora's box
Mygreatestescape Feb 2018
I had kept hidden
under the soft
glow of happiness,
an innate desire,
my acetic star,
for anything beyond
this comfortable walk

I found solstice spring,
unbound wildness,
untamed madness
in the pages of history's
souls that I read
and loved
as my own.
Jan 2018 · 514
Mygreatestescape Jan 2018
les lions,
comme tout le
monde le sait,
vous cru
et arrache tes os,

De sorte qu'ils
ont dit vous
avez été cruels
dès le début

Mais je préfère l'appeler
une beauté sombre,

à  toujours couper
pour le coeur.
as everyone knows,
will eat you raw
and tear out your bones,
so they said you were cruel from the start,
but I'd rather call it a dark beauty,
to always cut straight for the heart.
Mygreatestescape Jan 2018
I know europe
only through the
lense of my textbooks,

I know france
and britian
only because
of the hallow
of our soldiers,

I know history only
we wear black
in somber silence,
we hold pictures
of murderers,


a continent
with a woman's

filled with countries
that lit the
evening sky on

that dipped
their hands in
the blood of
foreign people.

tried to shackle
the colours
of the wind
with iron fists
and crow bars,

her wars won
by the suffering
of it's colonies,

she reached for the
minds of
all people
and tried
to make
sound like
the evening rain,

and yet
here lies

the brave,

the strong,

filled with countries
that bask on top
of their killing sprees
and call

and yet

could never shackle us.
Jan 2018 · 849
Mygreatestescape Jan 2018
If the sadness will
last forever,
than I will paint it,
because after
the melancholy
there are silent voices,
humming in my hands,
urging me
to draw the first line,

I have art and poetry,
a belief in a god
who is neither stuffed
or hangs depressingly on
kitchen walls,

I will keep good
look forward
not backwards with
I will love
each person

I will hope,
and hope
and draw stiches
across the borders
that separate us,

just so many hearts
all beating,
all bleeding,
all of us holding
our breath,
all of us waiting for death,

so many people,
silent paintings,
murals of suffering,
coloured black with
their diluted

so many people
who make colours look alive,
that grew in houses filled with

stars that made us dream

they give me courage.

they keep me alive.
Dec 2017 · 818
hell is full of realists
Mygreatestescape Dec 2017
I will follow god's shadow
to the patches where humanity
lights matches,
and the organised masses
inhale virtuous sin like *****

each atom singed with
mindless absurdity,
I love god the most
when I hold my head
high, even when
my heart is heavy

and yet you piously rip flowers
from the minds of
your self proclaimed sinners

--give me reason
or give me death,

soulless conditions,
the oppressed creature's
book of virtue,
follow it and celebrate

eat the bread
of your saviour

drink the wine of his blood

as if this was some type of lunatic fringe
as if we were naive children
invested in murderous thoughts,
wash us away with your spring rain,
harvest rose beds on our dry lands,
just to see them grow into thorns
that convulse
beneath the bed
we lay our hearts in

don't teach me how the world will end,

instead teach me how
it can begin again.
For how many years longer are you going to keep telling every generation to 'have faith' and trust in your version of some imperial deity? Just because someone does not lie on the same premises as you, does that make them unworthy?  Does questioning make us sinners?
Dec 2017 · 521
a city of stars
Mygreatestescape Dec 2017
A large portion of our
livid loneliness comes from
the deep emblems of the human condition,
the fantasy that we each are far more complex than  each other.
Trapped in our
wet dreams of waking up one
day and writing
things that we saw in the stars.
we are so far from one another
each a planet suspended
in the air
waiting for someone
to tell us
"you did well "

but how can we speak
of reaching the sun
when we don't feel like we are

or there

or anywhere at all.
I hate how people who are so honest and kind expect everyone else is too.
Dec 2017 · 574
Mygreatestescape Dec 2017
The cake was
red velvet,
a side of ice cream,
I feel bloated
and happy for once,
I reflect upon the years
as I splurge money
on books -- a favourite present,
I buy all the hot picks,
Nomads, Sleeping Beauties,
and somehow
I am able,
in this bookstore,
to read between
the lines of my existence,
all is air,
all is thought,
all is worthless,
yet at the same it's
and as we read,
we laughed,
we grew into
versions , into mirages
of strangers
we once knew
from only dreams
of growing up,

I am not hungry,
I am not sick,
I am bright
were others are
I see people
in fleeting seconds,
there you are -- I say,

and as I look at the city lights,
the lone stars in a place between
the breaths of our existence,

here I am -- I say.
Dec 2017 · 637
Mygreatestescape Dec 2017
Have you ever lost something? Just small
little things at first, like your keys or your
favourite pair of jeans. I have lost many
things, I have discarded people and toys
and favourite t-shirts, they lay in corners
of my house -- little tidbits of love that holds
no place in the frozen realms of my heart. When I lose
something important, I ravage the whole house until I am pulling
out nostalgia like a magician pulls handkerchiefs from a hat.
I find, along my journey, old books and memories that never
seemed to exist until the moment of rediscovery, the moment
my heart takes to reflect upon a past that is filled
with abandonment. I guess everyone
has a history of lost things, of small nonessential and old
diary entries from the 50's, and love letters or their high school
The thing that saddens me to my core is that I found you
in my lost things. It was a photograph of you lounging in a
hammock, a god in a world of fire, your hair falling in your
eyes, a beautiful creature of ignited desire, a dead boy caught in
an eternal photograph, frozen forever with a wolfish grin, your eyes so devoid of death, your eyes the bluest of blue. The gods themselves, so filled with envy, so jealous of your mortal heart and gentle smile, took you away. For every moment was like our last, everything so much more brilliant when you are doomed to die.

you will always be lovely, never again will someone ever be as lovely as you. What pains me is I will never be here again. Clutching your picture and wondering how I could forget for even a second. And perhaps this is the greatest pain of it all, to be left here in a world so cruel, while you are gone. I wonder if I will forget you again, if you will rejoin my collection of lost things.

So I bury you in the back pocket of my favourite jeans, and continue to look for my  keys.
Nov 2017 · 664
jezebel and I
Mygreatestescape Nov 2017
they named a city
after us and
called us the
catalyst of disaster,
at the feets
of our white
the only
book we read is the
and if you shove it down your
throat, you
might even believe its true,
and all God's people
are living in
this -- den of thieves,
calling us the
**** beneath
their lashes,
this eternal sleep
from a city
in the dark,
they say its
enlightenment when
you are lonely,
we search for love
in our
the god's of
our own creation,
your brown,
black skin
is a cage of sins,
take the holy grail
and wash away
your rituals
and savagery,
you carry a disease
that can only be cured
by our saviours,
the mark of cain
on your forehead
shines as if you
were the messiah
that rose from
the embers of
our rotten history,
we erode
away into blaspheme
irascible rage
in our veins,
trying to
tame our loneliness,
as the man watches
at the woman in
white who sits six asiles

an angel in purgatory.
Nov 2017 · 656
Mygreatestescape Nov 2017
You can learn
with time how to break down
language to its base,
to lose meaning
in eternal euphoric repetition,

"I love you, I love you,
i love you, i l o v e y o u."

pouring ashes in ****** skies,
words that hang in
the middle ground,
in rooms filled with
pregnant silence,
prophetic words
whispered in ears of
pathological liars,

words that defy gravity,
looming over your head,
joy rots into sorrow,
confidence into arrogance,
sirens that only sing
to gain,
leviathans that rose from the
cracks in our spines,

if we knew what love was
we would have spent less
time falling into arms
that clearly were not,

staying -- only to be thrown
so far away from ourselves
that we become lost in the
process of trying to find home,

our skin has become a
pit stop  for   strangers,
our fingers
begging for art,

callouses form in our hearts,
          I keep telling you,

"Je t’aime pour toujours"
Je t’aime pour toujours - I love you forever.
Nov 2017 · 653
Mygreatestescape Nov 2017
In our controlled
I have seen inspiration die
faster -- much
faster than the patients
who stare
vividly at hospital walls,
I've seen fascism in its forms
of boundaries and order,
insane in it's simplicity,
a communist captialsitc
enterprise filled with money
mongering machines,
filling our minds
with the filth of their
free speech,
with their white collars
and white teeth,
their hearts yellowing
from misogynistic gingivitis,
jumping off the moon,
their history is predetermined
turning our minds blue,
we dream of nooses,
and paintings that burn
to fine tuned jazz,
September is the month
to overthrow the bourgeois,
but how can we set fire
to a bourgeois
that is us?
we dare not speak of the
because you know
you are opressed
when certain things
make the rest of the populace
as if the battalions of the world
were colliding
on the isolated planets
inside their minds,
filled with polite
no room for "intellectual development",
But I
-- I know of some who set fire
to their papers
inside their rooms,
ripping hair out,
plotting their fate on
the lines of disaster,
lounging in coffee shops
hungry for words
that were written hastily on
napkins made in China,
in alleyways they died
of opioids,
frothing from
the mouth,
as if their minds could not
hold the extents
of their madness,
I feel utterly depressed
listening to the
Queen of Saigon,
paranoid that
every word spoken
comes  out wrong,
their is platonic
ecstasy to being
utterly mad,
in classrooms and in
the halls of
our educated masses
we find computer programeed
glee in our
a whole nation
on the verge
of utter calamity,
epitome of insanity,
romanticized  suicide,
if you cannot survive in
the intellectual community,
their is always the option of
falling off bridges,
and ledges,
crimson that muddles with the cement.
yet we live only to
keep spiraling into our continuous condominium
of madness and utter sadness,
indoctrinated in a system
that tears wings and leaves
mind numbing blandness,
who smile uneasy when challenged,
we are all subjects to the
free press,
oh how beautiful it is
this blatant propaganda,
open up your mouth
and swallow it
that's the beauty
of being a child forever,
cherry picking out
the worst ones,
marginalizing the thinkers
until they are left crippled
or dead,
or dying in alleways
due to our systems
pretrial  narcissism.
measuring intelligence
in our willingness to obey,
comply to a larger
order of things,

as the factory defaults
lay naked and trembling
dying out
like the lights
of the city after dark.

We fell in love with
social obedience
before we
ever felt the clutches
of our rage.
Based off the book L'etranger, and the struggle in finding the fine line between dissonance and this systematic derangement.
Nov 2017 · 505
ways to say goodbye
Mygreatestescape Nov 2017
In french we
say goodbye in
different ways,

salut; À bientôt ; À la prochaine ;
Je m’en vais; Je me casse; Bonne soirée ;
Bonne journée; ciao ; à plus ; Bonne chance:
au revoir

but I only ever said Adieu
to you,

because I never again
did ever see you soon.
Adieu is used when saying goodbye to someone you will not see for a long time or you won't ever see again.
Nov 2017 · 338
Mygreatestescape Nov 2017
It's been three weeks
and there has only been rain,
the forecast
has become static ,
a repetition -- an escape,
but only
      only rain,

and while it rains
we must live,
  in the anticipation,
in the meantime,

in the meantime of what?



Then this waiting,
this arduous task,
       is life,

so how then shall we fill
our cups with life,
how should we live
                                 in the meantime?

I've read books, they only give me
pain, and more rain,

the darkness comes, in the night -- as always.
and it will keep coming,
                       keep coming and coming,
                                    until one day ..
                        you're not there to watch the forecast at all.

But this is fiction,
             stories and urban legends,
because it was not me,
                   it was not me who feel asleep
                                                   to never wake to the sun.
no, I am alive, I'm here in this rain, rain rain, pain, pain pain.

And its claimed a man down the block,
in the city,
between the allies,
It seems closer,
             the fences are the only barriers,
It will come slithering up the steps,
and clot my bloodstream,
              I won't ever see the forecast for the next day.
But the rain keeps coming,
it falls through my skin and seeps into my heart,
I am the epitome of blue,

I count the hours, I count the days, the years
the seconds, each breath seems excruciating,

within the seconds we pray to Gods,
to demons, to Creators,
to figments of our minds,

we count the droplets on the window pane,
stuck in the terror of routine,
afraid to break it,
we eat the ashes of our sweat,
we drink the wine of our blood,

today I was certain,
           that I would not last,

But I woke up again,

It's raining,


“The human race is a monotonous affair. Most people spend the greatest part of their time working in order to live, and what little freedom remains so fills them with fear that they seek out any and every means to be rid of it.”
-  Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, The Sorrows of Young Werther
Nov 2017 · 1.3k
Mygreatestescape Nov 2017
I like to go to
art galleries,

and cry between
the paintings.
Oct 2017 · 688
Black Dahlia
Mygreatestescape Oct 2017
You love to say
"**** it,
life's a lie"
so I took it as a
-- if you hate me,
then you can
get in line.
Oct 2017 · 7.1k
you will heal
Mygreatestescape Oct 2017
The tendons
in your body
must rip and tear,
must bleed
and suffer
to become stronger,

and I think
it must be the same
for our
I feel so stupid.
Oct 2017 · 1.2k
the plastic
Mygreatestescape Oct 2017
I learnt how to
destroy self esteem
from my mother,
with vulgarity
and sincerity
she tells me
that "no one
will love you if you're
that's how the women
are raised,
with wide hips and
children lined up
behind picket fences,
I feel defenseless
-- living in the 18th century,
It's not productive
if you're not reproductive,
a ****** nation
living off temptation,
In  the dark parts,
there are shadows
and from those shadows
grew destructive desire,
when men come home from
work and women
handle heated words
for seconds in the bedroom,
I will speak of this
that has plagued
this neighborhood,
this whole **** country,
the belles they tell
us that if you wern't born
with it you can buy it
with money from angry men,
they'll pay out your wages
so you can spend them on
because pretty faces make
it better,
we are haunted by our
my mother cries
at night, but at day
she makes me
she says ugly
isn't worth it,
because roses
wilt under the sun,
they are destroyed
by the feet
of powerful strangers,

and I am afraid
one day I too
will only have
my daughter for company,
and maybe
one day I too will
teach her how to destroy herself.
Oct 2017 · 410
Mygreatestescape Oct 2017
Pièce par pièce je m'écroule,
si être vide est
une œuvre d'art,
Je serais un chef-d'œuvre.
peice by peice,
I fall apart,
if being empty is a work of art,
I would be a masterpiece.
Sep 2017 · 1.0k
Mygreatestescape Sep 2017
The very
first time I remember
you - your
eyes were blue
and so so cold,
the next time they
are filled with warmth
and this fallacy of
love you carry around
like loose change,
after some time I
give up trying to decipher
the colours in your eyes,
because even if you don't
--  I'm always
in love with you,
I remember with a familarity
those times we grow up together,
where you whisper your
sorrows and cry pain in my arms
under secret spots only we know of,
I loved you then when you
always went along with all my
bad ideas,
before you grew up and realized
that I was a bad idea,
and when we meet again
we are so much older,
and you are much more cautious -- I don't blame you.
Yet you
always forgive
As if you're making up
for all those alternative
lives where
we don't exist
for each other,
and those
ones where
you hate me
and I barely know you,

I hate all those versions,
because I know if there
was another world
where you hated me so,
you would have killed
me by now.  

But in the end,
you always surrender,
and I hold you again,
wondering if I hate you,
(because I wish I hated
and even though
I know we will meet again,
I always am afraid
if this is the last time,
because what if you're
already happy -- without me?

But I don't blame you;
because you are brilliant,
so it's only fair that
I have to chase
you through all those
lives where
you don't exist,
where you love strangers,
until I find one where
you come back
to me,
because I have
so many things
to say,
when you get
up to leave again,
I should say them,

but I won't.
Someone always ends up crying, and its always me -- why??
Sep 2017 · 397
Mygreatestescape Sep 2017
And they like
to say that justice is blind,
she must be --
for she can't see her
people bleeding out
in ***** alleyways,
being swallowed
by the smoke
of misery and strife,

she fights
for those with
wads of cash,

but who fights for you?
Sep 2017 · 305
the difference
Mygreatestescape Sep 2017
some people
I met were like
stars in the sky,
while some were
the embers of hell,
but when I met
you, in your midnight ruse,
in my eyes the entire
galaxy came to dwell.
Sep 2017 · 298
Mygreatestescape Sep 2017
Their false words
hid my feelings of anxiety,
Their vanilla lips stained
with venom helped
me forget reality,
They were the shadows
of my misery,
the ghosts of my false
They were snakes
wrapped around my neck,
whispering sweet nothings
as my skin turned blue.
Aug 2017 · 341
Mygreatestescape Aug 2017
I will plant lilies

the spaces
below your eyes

they'll remind
you of your

and blossom

when they
hear your lonely
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