Was Annabelle just a woman in Poe’s dream?
Was there really an angel on Janet Frame’s wooden table?
Did Emily Dickinson really wear white for the rest of her life?
Was Dante just a bitter ***** to tell people about a red man with horn’s on his head
Didn’t think it was Halloween too soon on the corner of his calendar

I resembled all the traits these  writer’s made of their spoken lives just like Bukowski
If he did live in many rooms and lost his brain cells in bottles
Maybe in the afterlife Burroughs will give me pointers on drugs along with Thompson. Meeting Rimbaud ask him if he ever was in the closet. Took an eyeful of literature before high school,  made friends with boozers, losers and psychopaths. Don’t quote me because I cherish them so much I know I’ll try to make it like them soon, dead yet my heroes they remain alive
WRITE ME OFF WRITE ME OFFF Write me down there’s no pen and papers around scrawl on the wall have a purpose to write them all

as the wound deepens
vision gets clearer
that the future of us
is nonexistent

it's the thought that maybe just maybe he has a special way of looking at you
that sometime in the past
you really had it
that there's the connection you've been looking for
it's the wasted chances
the time that could have been for the two of you but didnt
it's the illusion you created which you believed as the reality
that you didnt see it coming
your head betrayed you and you cant accept it

i hear your laugh over the phone and realise,
i can touch every syllable from a million light years away.
i can pluck each of your heartstrings that tie themselves up with mine across landscapes
and it'll be music neighbouring galaxies can hear.
we don't seem so far apart when we make the world shrink around us. we are our own world.
your arms are a boarder protecting us from the sea,
your lips taste of ocean stars and your breath is the breeze
you bring life to the flowers blooming around me.
our hands are the bridge to connect laced footsteps
entangled tree branches, entwined roads.
we are maps to each other, leading us back when we're lost.
you are not here in the morning beside me in bed
as you are in the sky. i can recognise your rising light miles away.
you tell me i am your only earth.
and i need you because the earth needs the sun
to see a bright day.
we are our own world
and that's all that needs to stay.

you are eighteen and you're in love
with a boy who hates his birthday.
you don't know it yet,
but the world gets so much bigger than the back of his car.
you think he needs you to be happy and so does he
but both of you are wrong.
it'll take you almost a year to stop crying.
and then you don't talk for another three
and when you finally do,
he thinks he still knows you,
but your heart is heavier than it was then.
and you **** him because you're lonely
but it isn't the same.
neither of you can fake love.
at least he still makes you laugh.
you'll pretend it's enough
because at least he's a body.
at least you're not by yourself.
at least you're alive
and you're good at *******.
because bodies are distractions
from the things we hide inside them.
you have him inside you
and he wants to gut you of your ugly, your sad.
he scrambles for an excuse not to stay the night
and you laugh.
you know what this is and how it goes
and you both love someone else.
you swear you won't **** him again
but you do anyway because you're still lonely
and you like the way his hands fit around your neck.
you **** him because it's good for your art
and you get bored of your own hands on your body
and you're fine with letting him feel useful.
and you think about when you were sixteen
and how *** was supposed to be special
and it makes you cry
because you're not who you wanted to be.
it makes you cry, because the world got so much bigger
after you left the backseat of his car.
the world is so big and you don't know
how it ended up on your shoulders.
you would have died for him.
you have been ready to die for every person you have ever loved.
you have dreams where he dies
and you can't save him.
you have dreams where people die
and you can't save them
and you're the one who tied your hands.
your mangled heart and all its bleeding.
nobody asked you to die.
what good is all the love in your chest
if you don't leave any for yourself?

- m.f.