don't be parasitic, darling
we'll be fine, you're on my mind
i told you i dont need you,
and i've promised you i'd never lie
but there's no doubt, it must be true
i want a life alone, without you

,dont be parasitic, darling
you'll be perfect alone
you'll see it's easier that way
that's why it's harder to stay
even if it's perfect
we'll be more perfect alone

i'll write you a poem  ,not because i want the poem
but because i want the poem removed
like cancer ,like a tumor
                     it consumes me ,slowly

i draw in ink through my eyes ink  through my eyes.
desperation   thick in my veins
    'get it out'    it consumes me;
there is a poem inside me;
               ,i need it out
it is as
  a desease;it affects
  ;every aspect of my mind
it will not sleep
it does not sleep when i sleep
it consumes me it whispers it screams;
         'let me out'
and i pull the ink
                            through my eyes
put the pen to my page,
tear 'poetry' out from my mind
and lay it down in all honesty
to die

thrown to the relentless;
truth, and the critics
          the poem will die
          no deeper meaning
the addiction returns;
there is a poem inside me;

i need it out,
it consumes me.

i turned pain
into a game
and played you
'till it turned around
and i got caught
on the board.
now what do i do
what do i do

no clear path forward
no straight path through

Things in this world are too tangible
I see them all through the eyes
of a god of death; a date
writing itself on a small slip of paper
and pressing itself into my hand

love, I want to feel without consequence,
bruise the truth with my lies and let the blood
whisper "forever" beneath my skin.
I'm sick of this strain of terror

I never even knew hate until I was branded with it
you took your white-hot palm and placed it over my lips,
closed your eyes and recited the endless crimes
of a wanted criminal who wore my face
but whom I'd never known

and when the silence rotted, you turned your head
and wept as a victim.
You murderer. You examined me for scars
left me for dead without a heartbeat
named it "suicide" as an act of faith.

With indifference as a blade, you cut me
but the paper skin peeled back to nothing
and I demand no satisfaction, no pound of flesh;
in the future there will be no ghosts to mourn;
only the changed or the cruel will haunt us

And you, you are both,
demon of acclaimed justice, you rancor deity,
you who refutes any claim of vindictiveness
but feels "manipulation" as a sort of emotion
and understands "abandonment" to be a kind of justifiable punishment
for having dropped short of perfection
and come up instead as
merely human.
To forgive is divine.

We are failures of gods, you and I

i found a map/ that seemed similar to a lot of things,

your face was one of them/
but a small postscript in the corner
/screamed at me;

“don't look for her.”

You will see me tonight,
although your dreams are warded
against love and nightmares

I am the constant; the timeless;
the moon that waxes
and wanes in your thoughts;
I am here; I will not leave;
you shall not be abandoned;

i am the lie you've been fed;
[and the truth with which
you've been poisoned]

i am the facade of reality;
i am the one you have buried;
i am here;
i am timeless;
i died with eternity;

i died like so much snow swept away

it's kind of like antharax; vanity;
it's in the air in your eyes in your lungs in your walls

someone else put it there
you're breathing it in and you're not even aware
it's killing you, you know

and the only reason you're reading this now
is because something drew you in.
maybe it's because this is typewritten
...
hell knows if it were in my handwriting
you wouldn't have gotten past the third letter

but back to the killing
back to the dying

the vanity that someone has put in the air and is filling your lungs,
it's curable.
all you have to do is realize

;
this poem is not about you.

im tired of faking
i wanna get up in the morning
and feel honestly alone

not like this
not looking without seeing
not hearing without knowing

this poem *****
its two in the morning
and i'm tired

what the hell is a triplet
these lines without meaning
so vague

What is love; useless;

you write delicately
as if words could carry emotion
amidst their vowels.

It sounds awkward;
the letters weigh down my tongue
With their blunt and jagged
syllables;

It is not real poetry;
It is the realest poetry.

O scream, you'll find no salvation,
(you have not sinned,
there is no sin)
There is no 'salvation';
no hope for the angels;
no hope for the ******

you kept trust folded up
in your pocket like
a foreign currency.
it's useless in your country,
you explain

but i am caught up in
the language barrier,
the strangeness of your world
and your words

I never thought you were a hero but
at one point i thought
you were a real person.
imagine my dissapointment
as the mask fell off when you screamed

i'm sorry but i found your reply rather vague;
i wasn't at all sure whether your 'yes' meant yes
or if perhaps it meant no
so i stood there tearing an orange apart with my fingernails
scattering bits of skin,
bright against the pale grey of the ground, thinking
maybe it didn't really matter after all

so the truth is during class today i was going to pass you a note.
a small folded piece of paper with words, you know? it summed up
everything i was holding in my head. it was like i was balancing a huge bowl of water,
and just one more thought would make it spill.

so i guess i went about it the wrong way, but i waited for ages
and you never turned around. so i threw a pen
but you woulden't even look at me

and that's how i got my answer and everything overflowed
and i was left standing there with an empty bowl
and a million questions i didn't know how to ask

i know this is sadness because
my heart thumps quietly,
listening to my breathing pause
and restart, as i hold in every word

Let's make                                             (and when i go home
obscene pop-culture references              i'll listen to
                                                              ­                     bach
                                                                ­  on my radio)

last night
i drowned myself
in music.
it was a long, slow
death,

there was
no pain; for a few
long moments
you hardly existed at all

And you know I'm not sure if it hurts because I know you never even wanted a friendship like you told me and like the sham we kept up for so long, or because I believed you  in the first place. Either way, it was idiocy that kept me coming back to you though I knew when you told me you cared it was a lie. Or maybe I was paranoid. That's what I called myself. Paranoid. But this gut feeling of mine, the one that tells me it hurts somewhere inside where broken bones aren't my problem, it knows that paranoid was just another way of saying "This guy is going to **** you inside. Look what he's doing right now. How could this end?" Silly me, I trusted you. People never change. I never believed that 'till now but hey, I guess I could only stay naive for so long. I guess I have you to thank for that.

I am not
myself, tonight.
I've just had
a conversation with you
that I won't remember,
not tomorrow, anyways

please forgive me,
I've been slowly extracting
myself from your life.

You don't need me, you see
and I'm tired
of waiting for you
to toss me away

maybe I said goodbye,
and maybe I told you "I hate you"
or "I love you"

but I won't remember,
not tomorrow.

The day your world bled there was no blood. There were no tears. The clouds gorged themselves on sky but remained white and empty. (There was no rain. There never was any rain.) The earth you lived on faded to the cold grey of old black and white photographs but nobody screamed. Was your voice caged by self-loathing, or pity? It wasn’t ignorance. I still remember the day you said you missed the color red. Where was the violence? Did you bury it with your fear or your innocence? Because there’s nothing as unpoetic as an open wound. It seems that’s how you’re heading to live your whole **** life; open and weeping and dying without color.  (And I?  I saw a ray of hope and decided to give up on you after all.)

I’m interested in the way your mind is locked. I see no chain. There are no keys. Your simple steadfast determination to be deaf and blind is holding the door shut in its hands. It is never off-guard. Your mind-beast is strange. It doesn't have eyelids. Nor lips or a tongue. It doesn’t breathe or have heartbeat. [It is made of wood. Deep roots like veins bind it where it stands. It’s grown into the door. It is the door. The beast is the door and it refuses to open. The beast is the door and it’s killing your mind; one dead thought one dead dream at a time.]