a perfect canvas can get away with anything,
even destruction.
nothing done to it will destroy it, only make it shine.
add this, and add that.
pile on all the things that made everybody else undesirable.
instead of revolting, you become art.
was it a transformation of the hands or one of the eyes?
it’s like you had become adorned with colour and shine
instead of a veil to hide your reality.
the blandness beneath,
or the stark truth behind you.

mayhap it was a transformation of the heart.
it seems as though one may have bartered their life
just to be worthy of a glimpse
for five more minutes.
perhaps not merely a glimpse,
more, a lifetime.
what is it about

i think people don’t ever understand what i mean
he hands her his cigarette
as if in wordless consolation
she does not smoke
and she has never touched a cigarette until this moment
she meets his extended hand half way
she wraps her fingers around the instrument
as if it were a crutch
your cigarette anchors you
she tells him, but does not think he understands
he anchors her
anchor on rocky bay
the world around them is the wind
and she is the boat
mercilessly, harshly rocked
on the water's surface
until she is hitting the rocky shore
over and over
over and over
hurting
just to stay anchored to him
i wish you understood.

Simplicity isn’t always beauty
Because sometimes it just translates
To stupidity
Obnoxious words spilling out of an uneducated mouth

The art is hiding behind one pretence or another, for surely it cannot be both of these? Hidden things cannot stay hidden, for found is where beauty is. Hate. The incessant whining of an ache behind my ear, and it is like the wind whistling between glass at an ungodly hour. Like smoke between teeth. The world does not obey your thoughts, does not listen to my wishes. So tell me your name, at least one time, tell me your name so that I may place it in my mind in a place where it can live and dance and rot and forever remain, and let me say, I love you.  Love doesn't exist. It is the chemicals that are held in the heavy weight of your tears.

death will tap your shoulder
seven times a lifetime
that’s what i’ve learnt
but when you whip your head around
death will have been long gone
and i suppose it’s fun to think about
that maybe death came and stood behind me for an entire week
but that’s not how death works
death will come to greet you  at even intervals
perhaps once when you are fourteen
and again when you are twenty one
and then when you are thirty nine

i am twenty now
and death scares me just as much as when i was a child
not the thought of dying,
but the thought of leaving things unfinished.

i've tried
many times, i have
but i cannot single handedly put together a puzzle
with all the wrong pieces
perhaps in time
some people just cannot fit together

AM I DESTINED TO BE LIKE YOU?
TO BECOME YOU?
IS THIS WHAT YOU’RE PREPARING ME FOR?
THE EVER DUTIFUL WORKAHOLIC,
OH GOD FORBID YOU EVER HAVE SOME PERSONAL FUN!
I AM NOT YOU.
I DON’T WANT THIS LIFE
IS THAT WHAT YOU’RE “PROTECTING” ME FROM?
A LIFE OUTSIDE OF THIS MISERY?
You will carve every bit of me out,
Piece by piece
Until I am a shell of myself,
Ready to be filled with your idea of a life
I don’t want your life.
Please,
Set me free.