I'll paint a picture
with you, right here,
by my side.

Paint on your canvas,
use my skin
and decorate it with charcoal
and pastels.

Make me beautiful.

Humans nowadays,
they know not to cherish
simplicity,
caring only of more,
more,
more!
But how much
extravagance
can one have
before it's too much?

She sits upon the roots
of the wise oak tree.

"Tell me, what must I do?" she asks hopefully.

"I cannot answer your query, for I do not know what you should do,
but I know someone who could help you." the oak responds.

"Well, who?"

"The Universe."

Evoke the reflection, see only candor, you seldom cry- have you no shame?
I cannot console you as you engage in this feud- the mirth of your eyes clouded with smoke, can you see? But of course not!
You move, languid, with the wine in your skull- where is your chariot, maiden? Where is your shame?
Have you none? But of course not!
You shan't walk free, for you have succumbed so easily- and with what risk? Was it worth it? But of course not!
Gold embroidered in the finest silk caresses your *****, a veil hides your tears- but alas, your soul is raw and ragged- why has thee left it loft in the sea?
The vernal land smells of petrichor- the stream runs eager! Where have you gone, what have you done? Have you run, one of seven brides to be wed? Have you no shame? But of course not!
Shall we await your return? But of course not!

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.

I seldom swear
on anybody's name,
but never in vain,
as I cry to know,
for somebody's sake,
where are you?

Prickling thorns on a white rose;
it has been stained by Adonis' blood-
care for nectar, Highness?
I offer you my condolences and my adoration,
wouldn't you accompany me?

white hot flames
lick my skin;
brimstone, hot like molten metal,
caresses my feet,
burns my heel;
i will walk,
I won't stop,
not until i arrive
in hell.

Firstly,
do not allow yourself
to be controlled.

Secondly,
indulge, but not too much.

Thirdly,
enjoy every moment
and learn from those moments.

Fourthly,
gratitude is important.
Use it.

And fifthly,
do not tolerate hatred,
rather,
diffuse it and be kind.

The harsh bite of the Nordic winds,
how it harmonizes with the moon
to push white waves across the ocean,
it's a true wonder
how the wooden ships drift so raggedly
on sapphire waters.

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.

You used to ask me
why I wore shades indoors,
and I never told you
I wouldn't, I couldn't.

But now that you've left,
I suppose I can say;
I wouldn't, I couldn't
let anyone see the truth
in the mirth of my eyes;
The sorrow they held
so desperately;
The tears and cries,
the skeletons and lies;
I couldn't let them see
what hurt me.

Your laughter scares me
because I worry
that I will never here that chorus
again.

I'd rather be run through
by the bayonet of a musket,
my body buried in an unmarked grave
and my death holding no meaning,
than stand by your side
only to turn back.

After a night that let
snow like chilled cotton
fall from the cloudy, yet sunlit sky,
the enthralling,
calming sounds of
twittering birds
and crunching snow,
that is my winter wonderland.

i use chalk
on a blackboard
to bring my imagination
to life.

Rules are only made to be broken
if they are set upon you
by a hypocrite.

do you ever
just wanna say
"**** it"?
yeah, me too,
but we can't.
we gotta keep going,
and i'll be your shoulder to cry on.

I do not condone
your pitiful suggestions
for potential partners
that are so dull,
mundane.

Merely time,
five times that dawn will show itself
before the eve of battle,
and we will succeed
in the completion of God's will.

Once it has lived
a fulfilling life,
the spider plant let's it's children
hang elegant from her arms.
They don't let go,
never,
until someone takes her children
from her.

The gaiety
as you show me
your soul.

I threw a little wish in the well,
you ask and ask but I'll never tell,
so you dove in and I watched as you fell
your loss, I bid you farewell.

I tend not to compare
my expectations to reality
because I would see the same thing
each and every time.

I don't want to be the one to say it,
but I can't help but be angry;
I am to do what I am expected to do,
and yet
everyone else's errands are so minimal.
I can't help but be disappointed;
when you don't think of how
you not doing something
could be consequential for me.
I can't help but be frustrated;
that you keep saying you will make a change
but another day goes by,
and you still haven't done anything.

In all the debris,
the black and white of the world,
I swear I'll do better,
I swear I'll sport colour.

If you remove a silver sterling blade
from a sheath of thick leather,
you either make an oath
or make a killing.

My heart was shattered
before my very eyes,
each piece tainted
beyond repair.
Thus, I'll use a needle and thread
to sew my heart back together
making a mismatched masterpiece,
like a quilt.

I'd rather die by the hands of an assassin
using a rusty arrow or a dull blade
than allow you
to take my maidenhood.

One plays the acoustic
with the potential of a genius,
writing lyrics
as thoughtful as himself,
but he is blind
to his magnificence.

I feel lovely,
featherlight,
no worries.

No, that's not
quite right.
That's not at all how
I feel.
I feel like I've hit
rock bottom,
my chest chained
to a wrecking ball.

The ticking of the clock,
rusty and antique,
as though it snaps it's tongue with
every passing second
and torments my everwaiting mind.

The rippling whispers,
as the water flows downstream
jumping across stones.
The sound of the river,
it told me to swim.
It hypnotized me into
numb bliss.

We were all children,
after all,
we were so pure,
so very small,
we would walk
and we would crawl,
but now we're older,
so very tall.

When we were younger,
we'd always fear
feeling pain,
to feel a tear,
but nowadays
they're always here,
there is no melody
in the sobs we hear.

The chagrin overrides
my attempt to no longer hurt;
the burning sensation in my chest
soars through my body
and has salty, burning tears
stream down my face
like waterfalls.

Sure it does,
isn't that what a bill is made of?

A true poet,
has seen the flame of pain,
or perhaps, they have been burned,
to be capable of writing a poem
so short, yet so wise.

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.

A cactus sits,
prickly,
in the tattooed
clay ***.

I've always loved the rain,
but the inconvenience of it
in this very moment
obscures my window.

Were we ever free,
with the boats carrying us unwillingly
over the sea?

Were we ever free,
whips splintering our backs,
slashed like cutting boards?

Were we ever free,
working until our knees gave out
for the fear of being punished by aristocracy?

Were we ever free,
knowing or not that we'd lose our children
to the hands of greedy men?

Were we ever free,
crying our eyes out, holding the hand of a corpse
asking it to speak?

Were we ever free,
will we ever be?