your heart turns,
not because of pumping blood,
but because your heart has cogs and springs
that turn with a click
to keep you alive.

His fingers caress skin like ivory,
tracing circles upon my back.
His touch, it has become languid,
yet it makes me feel beyond zealous.

The rain shatters as it falls to the cobblestone,
the scent of petrichor strong in the air.
The rain hits a red umbrella, held by a woman
with lips as red as her shield.
The rain lands on the roof of a telephone booth,
dribbling down the red door.
The rain hits a red double decker bus,
a calming melody for the people inside.
The rain hits the blood flowing from a lifeless corpse,
courtesy of an admirer
of Jack the Ripper.
It's a chaotic beauty,
it's crimson London.

A woodpecker probes an oak for grub,
a raven cackles while perched proudly on an old wooden fence,
On the hazlenut sapling, a warbler twitters.
On the willow, a viceroy butterfly flutters.
In the sky, a hawk has narrowed eyes in search for its prey.
In a weeping birch, a dragonfly soars.
These creatures, they see the world from a different perspective,
only because they are winged.

The sun rose above the city,
but the air was dense, heavy,
frozen.
Every movement, a click of boots
a scurry of squirrels
was amplified by the barren cold.
Raindrops from the previous night
fall down the lampposts
on the verge of freezing like tears,
stuck in time.

I lay in the sand as the ocean caresses my skin
as it crawls boldly to the shore.
I ask for a favour, but the sea is its own master.
It is hungry, insatiable. It desires blood.
The moon shines brilliantly upon the ocean,
illuminating the flowing string of blood
that choses to meander upon crystalline waves.
I stare at the moon as she takes my unborn child.
"Do protect her, please."

My blood is red,
the sky is blue
what must I do
to escape you?

The tulips are red,
the cornflowers blue,
I need to admit
I no longer admire you.

Every move you make is erratic,
I keep guessing what you might do next,
but you keep circling my head
like a halo of such tedious decisions.
You entertain a quiet, somber demeanor
and remain smugly volatile.
You are capricious.

Let me, love,
allow me to remove your cold facade
so that we may engage
in a dance, a symphony
of carnal pleasure.

I listen to the planes soaring through the clouds,
I watch a dragonfly kite pierce the air,
I hum a tune of delight.

What a lovely afternoon, wouldn't you say?

I listen to the birds chirping jauntily,
I watch you stare in amazement,
I smile with glee.

What a lovely afternoon, with you here to keep me company.

You drain me of a necessity to live.
You try to enthrall me with manipulation and power.
You lie, you don't love me, you are much too aloof for that.
You are conniving, with a malicious smirk to accessorize your bloodshot eyes.  
You disdain me, you love only those who can offer you gold.
You need not receive my love, for you are too fascinated with yourself.

The clouds look like pigmented smoke,
magenta, navy, cyan and wine,
twilight is near and brisk breezes
bite my skin harshly.
And yet, my feet stay rooted in the field
cluttered with sunflowers that look to the sky,
their petals drifting in the wind,
creating a breathtaking contrast as they dance
among the stars.

Wait, wait!
I cannot do this,
I'm in too much pain,
stop, now,
I beg of you,
I'm talking to you, listen!
I'm falling,
but you cannot fathom
my pain, my tears.
No, I'm not overreacting,
I just can't help it,
my chest, it will explode in a matter of seconds,
please, don't make me,
I'm terrified!

Keep up with my pace
for the thrill of the chase,
delight will be seen
written upon your face.

You seem to entertain the thought
that I belong to you
more than I belong to myself.

You seem to entertain the thought
that you have a lead on my soul,
nonetheless my mind.

You seem to entertain the thought
that I must please you
before I please myself.

You couldn't be more mistaken.

When I am happy,
ready to combust, overfilled with joy,
I am reminded of how the sky is blue,
the grass is green,
and my merriment seems bright.
Yellow, perhaps, like the sun.
A charisma painted yellow,
so pure and so mellow,
I cannot resist, I must indulge.

The fire you kindle within me,
lover mine,
whether you laugh or cry ile,
is a love that came early
travelling with dawn.

I love,
I absolutely adore
staring into your eyes.
Oh, how those hues
of blue and green
capture the sweet spring sunlight
so majestically.

Tell your secret to the nourished grass,
And your secret will be swept away by the wind.
Tell your secret to your bedframe of rusting brass,
And let the polish cover up the secret, hidden.
Tell your secret to the broad cobblestone wall
And let the ivy cover it up until it’s tucked away within the cracks.
Tell your secret to the grains of sand
And let the ocean sweep away the remains.
Tell your secret to the flame of candlelight,
And the flame will die down before telling.
Tell your secret to a crystalline raindrop,
And it will become one with the earth before whispering.
Tell your secret to the moonlit night,
And dawn will come before dusk can begin singing.
Tell your secret to an autumn flower,
And let it be crippled by the winter’s frost.
Tell your secret to the running  waterfall,
And let it spill down into the river with your secret, lost.
Tell your secret to the tobacco in the pipe,
And let the smoke be lost within the brilliant clouds.
Tell your secret to the buzzing bumblebees,
And they will never say it aloud.
Tell your secret to the purest snow,
And by spring,  your secret will melt away into the well.
Tell your secret and let the  fireflies know,
And your secret can’t be retold; there is no one else to tell.

Silent sobs
Cries stuck in my throat
Heavy breathing, hyperventilating.
Even the sound of my tears
falling down my face
far too slowly.
I know not how to create music,
but I assure you,
I have an unbearable capacity
to create a cacophony of melancholy.

I pluched a petal as white as a dove.
"She likes me," I exclaimed, a glint of hope
occupying my eyes.
Another dainty petal plucked.
"She likes me not," I pouted, my lips twitched
in disappointment.
The last petal plucked with the delicacy of silk.
"She likes me!" I smiled.
Oh, Marguerite, she must like me!
The daisy said so!

She was like a fox;

Shrewd,
a cunning look in her eyes.
Never malicious, but always quiet.
She avoided attention,
while her flaming hair never agreed.
She grinned, but was careful
not to show her gaiety.

She was like a fox;

A chaste huntress in plain sight.

The sky was covered by a blanket of violet dusk,
the only illumination coming from the tall, eerie lampposts.
I strolled, slowly, aware of my surroundings.
My feet dragged satisfyingly
on the sidewalk.
It was time that I follow the moon,
she would lead me
to where I need to be.

I know these people,
right?
It doesn't feel quite like it,
not anymore.
I feel like a fawn,
walking through a forest,
vulnerable and alone.

With every ***** and every stitch,
you've embroidered my red string of fate
deep into my skin.

I collect the tears of the sky
in hope that it will suffice
so that I need not release
tears of my own.

A B S T R A C T

Time, is abstract,
where does the time go?
Does it perish, voyaging to oblivion?
Does it recuperate, recycle?
Where, when, why does it go?
It can go fast or slow.
T'is a fabric, a constant ticking.
Time, is abstract,
and we'll never find the time we lost.

You never know when you might lose something.
A bracelet, a bill, a pencil that you chewed nervously.
But sometimes, you lose a person;

I was in a classroom,
with great big tables
and walls that echoed the teenage chatter
of my class.

My love, he sat beside me.
My friends, a tad bit too loud
laughed behind us.
A modest couple
chuckle in the back.

A brilliant, clever man
with cunning yet tired eyes
look at me happily, solemnly.

A smile was traced
by his beard laced with silver
and his accent inquired professionally.

I remember how much fun he had,
how he filled the void in my soul,
how he shared his stories and wisdom.

I lost him; I miss him.

I love myself,
not like Narcissus,
rather likes Artemis
as I am always hunting for validation.

you drink the liquor
as if the more it flushes your cheeks
and widens your grin
and tears you up
will bring you luck.

People mourn the souls that have left
to encounter what lay beyond
in the afterlife.
Staring at a stone and soaking soil with tears
leaving their beloved with nothing but a grimace.
Foolish.
People should pity the living
who cope with society.
They should pity those
who live without love.

The gaiety
as you show me
your soul.

A youth adored by a goddess of love and beauty
He was confident, with stricking features.
His bravery, a virtue admired by many
led to his demise.
Was it the chaste huntress Artemis who ended him?
He was to spend the afterlife in the underworld
during the chilling season that frosted the Earth
And spend the summers with Aphrodite.
He was stricking, and melted the chill
of the underworld.

Am I really seeing stars
that create constellations
or do my eyes deceive me?

Do I wake every morning
whether it be a golden sun or a raging gale
and smell persimmon?

If it is real,
so help me,
I love it.

For a brief moment,
I felt happy.
I laughed, I cried,
I was no longer numb.
For a brief moment,
I socialized.
I talked and chattered
like a twittering bird.
For a brief moment,
I was me again.

human beings,
peculiar, are they not?
They worship fighting and violence
over nurturing and care.
The critisize unnecessarily,
and it all stems from insecurities
that come from others.
It's an endless, revolting cycle.

I once knew a man, he was wealthy,
he had taste and class.
He might as well have worked for an auction,
because every time he stole someone's soul
in return for a favour, he exclaimed
"Sold!"

His name, you ask?

Lucifer. I'm sure you've encountered him.

Perfection doesn't exist because,
when you see someone with a smile as white as snow
and skin like porcelaine or mahogany, lacking concave dimples
and hair that is long and lustrous
and eyes that are dewy and soft
you know they are not perfect because,
they had to sell their soul to attain such
unnecessary delicacy.

A wishing dandy,
to blow away all the seeds
and foolishly think that it would make
all of your dreams come true?

Not foolish, no.
It was a mother of seedlings that would grow
and while she may have perished,
her children traveled and sprouted.

That is all I would have wished for; life.

I used to gaze upon dandelions
as if the were flowers.
"They are only weeds, darling. We must rid of them."
But without them, I felt as though
our garden had too much space.
It wasn't cluttered with yellow,
it was bland.

I can't get out of bed,
for the fear of falling
into a fathomless pit as I lift myself tiredly
is a thought I cannot cope with.

I feel cold in here
I feel uncomfortable with these people
that I grew up with, that I know
I would rather be alone.

She wanted to speak with me
and spoke about her problems
but little did she know
I had gone through the exact same things.

i used to hold my head high
my stance filled with pride
but now my neck is aching
because I keep looking back.

If you really think about it
a masquerade ball
is simply people in posh fabrics
hiding behind a bedazzled mask
because they cannot face humanity.

Books lined with years' accumulation of dust,
old ink and an ostrich feather quill,
crippled purple plants on macrame hangings
and mustard yellow couches with wooden legs.
It was my library, my home.

when I die,
tie me to the stake
like the witch I am.
surround me with copper wire
and light me on fire
as you gaze upon the emerald flames
and my soul crosses the threshold.

i'm tired,
so tired
all the time.
                                            i'm carrying a wrecking ball
                                            behind my back
                                            like it won't **** my spine.
a mask won't do,
now will it?
                                           you're too smart
                                           to fall for that trick.
a facade won't do
but will you stay
if i show you?