I want you to give me bruises around my neck,
so that i can put you behind fear.
I hold your music in my hands,
the notes falling off each page,
i don't feel the music like I used to with you.
Eyes burning, face burning,
waking up with Kleenexes underneath my fragile body.
Paper filled with tears to hold.
Warmth in your smiles,
hatred in your eyes,
rage in your hands.
I file our disturbing memories.
This is not a home but a psych ward,
the only protection is a lock on my door.
I didn't give you permission to stroke me,
to rip me from my pride,
to destroy my only innocence.
The flowers around the house begin to die slowly,
they smell the yelling and the throwing.
A girl weeping in a corner, a memory of my recent past.
I wish I could go back to ignorance,
when all I knew was the word "light".
I don't want to hold things in anymore,
i want to let my words spill all out onto the page.
Don't want to become like you,
but am already half you.
You know what they usually don't say,
like father like daughter.
It's a black and white picture,
no more differences.
Always your shadow behind me as I look into the mirror.
Your fingerprints are on the piano,
staining the keys.
The piano is your music,
voice is mine.
The times we spend together are the times I want to rewind back,
to make them into perfection instead of what they really are,
pain and dysfunction.
I am eating up everything,
but so empty inside.
I need something more,
a touch of love from you.
You don't know me at all,
but i know everything about you.
Your heart has broken into many pieces,
spreading through your body,
you just don't show any piece of it.
Who will fix your mess when everything you touch breaks completely?
I will, I have to, since I am your other half.

Shakespeares words once beauty were,
through thought and speech they spoke to her.

Though in translations time was lost,
at dire end the beauty cost.

For only few still do perceive,
the words wrote down as he would need.

A scholar wise will still read on,
pursuing beauty long since gone.

Dead set in ways that harbor pain,
when sleepless nights is all you gain.

For trust of past is love soaked daggers,
each will stab and you will stagger,
and only now must I believe
it is not Shakespeare,
it is me.

The green, the blue, the red, the understanding in trichromacy,
And our optical miracle is used to tsk the voice of science?
But bubbling away under my eyelids where all the empathy is,
The meanings are fixed by a constant disintegration.
Force in which our major sense relies,
Is not a creation but destruction.

I cannot look now for fear of knowing,
The only truth behind that smile,
Is a soul shattering each second of contact,
And a window where the glass writhes.