My mouth aflame with bitter tracks; a  place unreckoned to a soul.

In convulsion and life do these things run -- in whatever thrives, to throbbing piles of char.

In darkness and whatever else may be near their grip,

power

in both

is inevitable.

c.e

I never liked the sun
how it suggests one can be both
bright and above things;
how time is measured
through a predictable presence;
how humanity projects unto
a divinity that eludes
itself.

When will
the three eyes
see the light
within?

I never liked sunburns,
how submission leaves a red sting.

Don't tell me that no one will care
because they will.
Don't tell me we'll move on
when you know we won't.
Don't tell me that you're okay
when you have the rope in your hands.
Because,
Death,
is felt by all those who care.
You'll say I'm only doing this to myself
or I've felt pain much worse than this
or give yourself some other ******* lie
to cover for your exit,
your escape,
your stairway out of hell.
Well guess what?
If death is grief, hatred, tiredness, and
disappointment in what you've seemed to fail at doing, then I guess I've all already dug my grave

Right

Next

To

Yours.

Because I'm not letting go of the people I care about.
And I'm willing to fight for every second
they breathe.
You say you're pulling me down
but I'm the one holding my ground
not willing to let you sink
to the bottom you think
you've already hit.
Death,
is enviable,
And I feel it everyday
when I talk to you.
But I don't mind.
I like the pain
just like you.
It may not be the same kind,
but it definitely feels the same.
And,

I

Love

It.

Silence says
a thousand words
to the people who cannot see,
but falls upon the ears of deaf
in my final hours' plea.
As I drown in my thoughts
I look up in hate
to you who does not give way
to the girl who would take a gun to her head
and count:

1...

2...

3... BANG.

As quite as the room was
my thoughts began to make noise
as my thoughts and actions took
each other by hand and hand
the symphonic, bittersweet harmony
arose from my thoughts and onto my skin
colliding with a blade of steel like a
horse-hair stringed bow to the copper
wire on a delicately crafted violin
getting louder and louder, the scene does,
with every vigorous sawing motion of hand and tears streaming,
the symphony came to a stop with one
sharp note and a crooked smile.
She rest with corrupt joy as a reward for all of the hard work done; as
the notes were written down-- not on paper,
but on skin.