Here i am, ripped, open.
Bones bared, muscles scarred and torn for you.
As you inquisitively take your eyes and survey the damage,
like some sort of architect,
of a future grander, design,
you have in mind.
And i must miss every single heartbeat you make,
in me,
i lost it when words came from your mouth,
and ordered me away.
So each beat lost its echo, it lost its twin,
it, lost, me.
And my bloodied chest was pinned back;
my breastplate, no longer a piece of shining armor,
lost its shine,
dull to your touch,
as you peeled it back to get to the very heart of me;
though the plate was in no hurry to leave,
it was stuck down quite hard,
and still words whispered around me,
a thousand different voices telling me what to do.
Yet, all i had, was, you.
It was you, i wanted just you.
You.
You, who is putting fingers into dying flesh,
You, who, is taking the very best of me,
of us.
You were my morning, and my nighttime,
my right hand and my left,
my second ear, my watchful eye;
And this concave chest of indescribable treasure,
is where you, used to lay, with me,
telling me that my heartbeat is too fast,
and i'd tell you 'its for you'.
So now you come to claim it,
for who would have such a thing to play with,
and never use it for fun?
So you said those words, and pulled my heart from my chest,
and as i died,
you said 'don't worry, its not for long'.
So i listen to the last beats of my life's drum,
pulsating in your arms,
you make 'it' into a new plaything,
as i lie dying, bare *****, dying slowly,
wrapped in peoples arms, crying to fill the void,
I can hear myself in the last few contractions,
trying to hold myself within,
and you're stroking my heart like it belongs to you,
and no-one knows why,
you've left me to die,
lost, and lonely,
so you could go out to play.

Do you hear my skin breathing?
My heart beat is dry heaving,
it is so loud, it is drowning me,
and i,
cannot,
breathe.

Except through my skin,
that breathes your fingerprints in,
through my barrier-made flesh.
I think i am quite empty, now.

My head is reservoir, dry,
though sometimes there are a lot of bees,
so i don't have to think...so much.
and there is only quiet darkness,
when i close my eyes,
and unbecome.
-
I wonder what I am becoming,
as i become something for you,
as i, become, a something, for, you.

Turn me around again, and again,
I can smile, for you,
because its much more seemingly right,
and quietly simple,
than to cry.

Though many nights i am defeated by myself,
i stifle the sounds i make,
sandwiched inbetween the karaoke bars,
and late night redezvous of cars.

I  can fill the black chasm of my chest,
with the life from the tears in my pillow,
and my hair will hold all my dead dry weight,
my weight of sorrow to feed my shame,
as i am made wrapped up, to be-made for you.

I would willingly drown,
if it meant i could escape this anguish of an island,
where i am not seen,
Invisible
yet touched,
and adored,
where i am not become,
until you unravel me undone.

So here i am,
on my knees,
and i have no way of knowing,
what i have become for you,
But you see a gift,
and you may take me now,
just as i am,
sold as seen.

I'm not a pretty girl,
But I don't expect you to notice that.
You see you easily turn left,
When I turn right, at the last second.
I have issues with my odometer,
And there are cracks in my peripheral vision.
There are burn marks between my thighs,
And my veins are pockmarked,
From the deprecation of free running love.
And when I play the piano,
When I can't,
I expect you to be near,
Placing a hand on my high held shoulders,
Decompressing the weight of a thousand clouded blue skies,
And imprinting a lifetime of security into my collarbone.
You see I have razors in my oesophagus,
Words spit out like dying blood,
And I feel like I'm dying from the inside out,
And, and, who can carry this load?
There is nothing but a mile in me,
To carry this, these feelings,
Because sometimes my legs don't work, and,
The 'Trying' is hard.
And my pelvis is tilted from the burdens I bear,
Nothing fills the void.
You see, where my heart is,
Is a storm, a tsunami contained
In a tri-vector of trust, fear and hope,
And it cuts my hair short,
It makes my tongue poisonous
And my eyes innocent.
You see I'm not that pretty,
But I don't expect you to understand that,
When you don't understand the times that I am.

You see my eyes hold a thousand memories of love,
And within these thighs burns passion;
My shoulders carry the weight of those that I have saved,
My oesophagus has eaten a thousands words of pain,
And my tongue has survived the most toxic kiss.
My hair is short because I wanted to lose the weight of,
Who it was they wanted me to be,
My legs, my ****** legs carry it all,
They just, keep, going, going, going, gone.
My heart, the tsunami, is entirely made of passionate storms,
That will consume you with love,
If you let it.
My pelvis rocks slowly in candlelight to carefully rock,
To sleep, the burdens i bear,
To music only a piano can make,
And through my veins courses courage, determination and strength......

You see I'm not pretty,
Because you don't see,
How astoundingly beautiful, I am.

These times are rough my friend.
No ship is ever meant to be anchored in a harbour.
Rough seas, storms, and titanic waves come at us, and we get through it, we soldier on, we are in the middle of the ocean using a broken compass to find our way.
We maybe lost, but the boat still sails, night, noon and day.
Some day we will run aground on new shores and we will understand what it was all about, and realise our tears that we thought we were drowing in, they were just a puddle, and we will stand on two feet and realise this it, we made it, we are strong again.

Put your two feet on the ground, and tell yourself you are grounded, you are grounded, you are part of this earth, you have a purpose, a gift and a future.
This one person in the great cosmological scheme of things, is merely a speck of dust on the band of time created by moments in our lives, to make memories, to make us stronger, to take that time, and gently strum your fingers across it and make a new type of rhythm, and new kind of time, a new future.

This person is not worth the love, time, attention you have given to them.
This is your time now.
This is your time.

Get passionate, get loving, let go of the chains that bind you to them.
You are your own person, and you are grounded.

Write and write and write, til the tears have fallen from bitterness, to rage, to depression, to ending, to believing and to end all the sadness.
This too shall pass.

Believe in you. You can do this. You are no mere mortal. You have survivied a thousand, billion, millions years of evolution to be here, your ancestors, ancestors, ancestors, all did it. You are a product of unimaginable surivial..

You have beautiful eyes to see this, look around you, hear with your willing ears, feel with your drowning heart and realise with your spinning, chaotic mind, that you will never ever see, feel or touch another time or moment like this ever, in the time of your life.

You have a potential 60 years of your life to live.

This person does not have the ground beneath their feet, nor the eyes in their head, nor the heart to recompense the hurt they have caused.

They are not you, you are not them. You are not longer their life, you are no longer beholden to them - however hard they hit you, with words, or pictures; remember you are a diamond amongst the rough, you will shine brighter and brighter.

Just be wary because moths, are always attracted to the brightest of lights which reside inside of the most internal and eternal beautiful people, who have shone through the darkest times.

Go take a walk, listen to your favourite music and remember you are you, and that is a beautiful freedom in itself.

I am always here, my arms open wide for a hug, and the kettle on the boil for tea, and a bottle of jack for when the stars appear, and when they do i will tell you, we are merely specks of dust riding on a planet through a never ever expanding universe, and you, my friend, are to be one of the most unimaginable, beautiful, proud, passionate creatures to survive the apocalypse of love, heartbreak and pain.
You are NOT alone. Ever

'Bite me' he said as he stuck out his jaw,
And I took my teeth, and scored a century of venom into his tongue
I ****** his words from his mouth,
Til he couldn't breathe anymore air,
Then I sat on his chest, put my hand across his throat,
And said 'talk to me'.
And his lips turned blue, and mine turned red,
I realised how it is when the very part of you,
Becomes bruised when you suffocate the very thing, that keeps you alive,
And I wanted him to know,
This is what my heart felt,
Every time he said 'i love you',
Because words are easy to utter,
But loving is not,
And only when I can show you how it feels to lose the one thing you hold so dear,
I can show you how it feels to love you.

Because not every dream has been alive,
As we hold them in our chests, in deep cavernous wells, of silence, darkness, intuition and empathy,
And we use the words that drips from these stalactites
On paper as we try to connect or connote some kind of meaning,
With an other type of human being who,
Is as lost as you are.
And whose dreams are held too tightly sometimes that they die out,
Like a flame without air.
And the in the air that is too hotly bound to the oxygen we need too,
Breeds a source of discontent for people.

And we read you,
People whose dreams have died a long time ago in the arms of, of a faltering god;
Whose responsibility you take,
Militant faith where you store an arsenal of weapons to use,
When you know you're good enough,
And when you're ready to protect yourself in the arms of something as,
Clean and crisp as rotten air,
yet there is a, heaven within us,
One that you see and try to take, use, misuse and abuse,
Wrapping tendrils of our beliefs around your fingers and pulling it, out,
Like you are pulling our hair, because being good sometimes means you have to be bad,
To enter paradise.
And your dreams lie within that attraction and it's as vulnerable as a flame.
So, you can never, stop, breath-ing.
And so we give you our breath, and we forget time is living, within us,
And that dreams, are not meaningful, unless you deem them so,
And beliefs turn to ash in our mouths, and our fingers become useless,
As our eyes,
Which are now turned inside out,
Because what is paradise, if hell is as hot as flame,
You're trying to protect?
And so the pursuit never stops, In the endless fashion,
To create something worthwhile out of nothing,
And we become clay in your hands,
And we feel you.

And we hold you,
the people, whose parents were the big bad wolf and the wicked witch,
And the monsters that you came to fear so that you hid under the bed,
And in closets,
and let your words suffocate inside of you,
And we the poets, see you, and feel you,
But, you, you, never ever see the beauty in the mirror, before you,
Created by the magic of a thousand mothers and fathers,
unable to complete the job,
And you in turn become the beast, the pumpkin, and the eternal sleep,
And finding someone to awaken you from your slumber becomes a life long mission,
There is no dream here to die out, we try to enliven you with our own,
We set you on fire in the nighttime,
The time when you believe all, comes alive, and a human touch,
That leads to an ****** or two, is the medicine you need to,
Climb, over, the, top, of, the, cliff and find, a way home;
But touch becomes emptiness, it dries up in our hands.
We are the dirt in your claws, and,
Like some thing has died, it turns to dust between your fingers,
And the more you, try to have us,
The more purple, black and yellow we become,
The smaller we grow,
in the cinders of your dying fire,
And we find beds to hide under, and closets to hide in,
Because dreams are something, not everyone can have,
So we hid ours deep enough within ourselves,
Because any flicker of any kind of intention, or emotion,
Is enough for your ancestral traumatised hands,
To try to dig it, out of, us,
By force, of necessary.
And we, feel you.

We tell stories.
Far too many of love.
Of people and love,
of a displeased marriage, whose loss of faith in love is renewed,
By someone else's smile,
That you take and wear them secretly out In a back bedroom,
Behind closed doors, behind peoples unmarked backs;
Where lost souls go to be reborn into new names and bodies,
And you take their body, and consume it,
because you were given a smile, and,
A smile in your language means some thing completely different to mine,
And this is what dreams do without air,
and won't let go of the *******,
And the alcohol,
and the ****,
and the songs that you listen to when you feel like,
You......are......dying, out,
And the fuel is running low.
****.
There is no ******-e in this story,
But the chase is un bountiful and therefore never ending,
And we try to become everything for you,
The fairy godmother, the prince, the magic wand,
And we try to consume you bit by bit,
Eating you up, in hopes you'll grow, bigger,
And meanwhile we are posioned by the food, exhausted by being made the demon, and
The madness that sits at our table is relentless,
You, are the by-product of a lost womb, and a fatherless hand,
And our dreams flicker in your tornado,
In the storms you create, in order to ravage, some emotion,
And, we, feel, you,
Oh, my, love,
We feel you.

And we the poets we take it in,
We see it all.
We see you angry, and disatissified,
We see you breaking,  broke and broke-n,
We see you destroy, thus, we are destroyed.
Our petite precious souls, with our epic hearts, our universal souls,
And that place where we hold our dreams,
We let you in.
Because we have warm fires, Big arms, and we,
We can create magic with our mouths and our fingers,
And we can help you to forget where you are and what you are,
As you, drag your fingers, round the cavernous walls in my chest,
Looking at wonder, that I've held within me , all. This. Time.
And we, the poets, can do this.
Because we have risen before and we gently glide in the night,
Looking for the sandman to pay a visit,
So that we can rejuvenate our eyes to stop seeing why,
We are not loved, oh so much, as if not so right,
And if, how, can, why.....?

Because here within in me is where your dreams came to die,
And my fingers are like pens of withdrawal as I try to **** you out of me,
Or us. We,
Are the ones whose hearts become so heavy, you will have to hold your breath
Pretty ****** tight to dive to the bottom of our seas,
To find a dead mans locker, where our love is buried.
And your faltering god, and your displeased marriage, and the mould that grows, through your ancestry,
Is no match, for us
For we are the poets, and we tell here stories, because we can't just write, a book;
The words....just don't conjoin together enough to make, me an author, worthy of a paperback,
firewood for someone's belly,
But simple words, here are built,
To keep the flame alive.

Because we are not some flittering, falling, pretty,
little whispers of things; we do not come bearing arms,
Or a key under the mat,
Or gifts at the end of the bed.
Do not be mistaken that we are the wick to your flame,
We are not treasure hunters, we do not find gold, and silver,
We are not jewels for you to sit and pore over in the night,
We do not want to join your crusade.
Because we, the poets, are the keeper of words,
The holder of dreams,
We have caverns within our chests, so large and vast,
Dreams cannot die out, or suffocate from you.
Because you, are the stories we write about,
A million souls who use their emotions as bullets on paper,
A billion breaths weaving together inbetween rocket fuel tears,
Ignited by you, a match we use to burn a new script,
A thousand pairs of hands building a home so big,
where you can never find the lock,
Because we are the poets, and we are the keeper of dreams,
And our flame never dies out.

She had teeth like razors, to cut you apart, and to make you bleed,
With this blood she took her tongue,
Her tongue was like a sword, one long frenzied blade of words,
That carved delicious and sharp sweet words,
Her veins coursed with uncut diamonds,; she bled like a queen.
Her arteries filled her body with imploding stars,
She electrified your very touch,
For when she grew in lust, her blood became so bright,
Her body felt like an explosion,
An vicious flow of lava pouring out of her skin,
Cooling to anew her very armour that held her together.
Her brain was a black hole, you'd vanish into her,
You'd be ****** in, by her very being....
Like a fire, you'd stand too close, til it ran low,
And you'd rush to fuel her, so that this moment didn't turn into ashes.
Her eyes were like the bluest skies, like a safe summers day,
Where you could lay and watch out for oncoming clouds,
And be on guard for storms in the distance
On her fingertips, love is carved into the whorls of the skin,
The lightest touch, and you'll be healed.
She is medicine and your cure.
Her body exudes light from beneath her skin,
She is the one you leave home to look for, for the light,
To leave home to fight for, for the light to remain,
And she is the light that you come home to.
Her caress fills you with safety, and belonging,
Fulfilling your emptiness, she becomes a blanket,
Long lost in your childhood.
And though she can howl in the night,
And run through the trees like the earth belongs to the soles of her feet,
You'll wake in the night, smiling, knowing she'll come to, you.
Her vivacious smile, with razor blade teeth,
Is a dangerous delightful sight,
You know you'll be cut open, and put back together.
And her lava skin that explodes like a thousand stars combusting,
Under the weight of your very gaze,
Is a feeling of soft renewal gently warmed by her fire.
And her heart, her heart,
is a thousand shores,
You look for in the storm,
When you are lost,
And can't see the light of home.