Somedays you are the butcher.
Somedays you are the lamb.
Somedays you are the yearning.
Somedays you are the ******.
Somedays you are the poison.
Somedays you are the wine.
Somedays I am the hurt
of knowing, you will never be mine.

The faux stars in your eyes is but a dreamless paradise.

All the girls I’ve loved
have been blades
that made me bleed poetry.
And darling, you were the sharpest.

Just because
being kind is my vice,
Don't break me.

I am the nightsky, you are the stars that fill my soul.

Darling, you were the captor of my heart
and I swear I loved something more than
my freedom for the first time.

It’s hard to imagine, whatever we had, was never real.

It is only after you lay to sleep every night
that the sun sets, in my horizon of being;
I wander, aimlessly, lost, chasing ghosts
and humming sleepless lullabies to the stars
while I, wait for the beautiful sunrise.

Poetry is Art & Art is Poetry & You are Both.

Fear is the speculum that keeps your jaws open,
while the cherries roll down your throat.

You are back and now all the poetry is b(l)ack.

Imagine a warehouse of apples with their individual conciousness.
They are labelled and categorised.
They are segregated.
The apples are gathered and put into boxes marked
by what they want to be known by,
their commonality/mentality.
If a bushel of apples are a stigma, they are put into boxes marked by what the other apples tag them by.

In a self-marked box, by the name of “surat zayifa” an apple lays at the juncture of the pyramid of analogous red,
maggots eating away at it’s heart.
The apple turned crimson hued to an evangelist blood maroon. Smouldering; festering like an open wound.
A stinging aura besieged it,
suffocating the air like sharpnel stuck in the throat.
The apple, consumed by a dark resurgence and a devilish resolve,
spoke in tongues of the serpent and supplanted seeds of pestilence in the hearts of the apples who joined his brooding virtue.
A collective conciousness was supplanted among the fruit,
imprinted with the face of death.

The world of apples, thrive on each other and face the forebodings of life together in spite of their marked differences in a state of throbbing dependancy.
The apples feed on the apples.
Another self-marked box, by the name of “khalas” were set to consume the apples from “surat zayifa” to continue finity,
unwary of their poisoned souls.

The apples fed on the apples and almost every other apple rotted and perished.
The apples that survived were the ones who consumed the apples unblemished in spirit.
All the others apples from all the other boxes blamed “surat zayifa” as a whole.
Even the apples purest, were tainted by the sins of the other apples,
the ones to take the blame for the misdeed of their creed.
The box was now marked in disgrace, a vehemence, a scourge.

The last remaining poisoned apple that was set to perish from “khalas” did something morally unhinging before it’s spirit departed;
the apple smeared it’s tan blood with words on the cardboard and dropped dead.

The singular light bulb flickered, the pulse strained.
Everything fell silent.
The words read “ We are ourselves. We **** ourselves.”

Your tongue like daggers, splice the silken flume of my heart.

I detach from the world to sleep,
but I’m still attached to you in my dreams.

The callous of you flail like the moon and you used to set every morn between these arms, now muddled with grease and sweat,
Every time I blink I see bokehs of you, ramming straight ahead at every juncture,
sans collision.
I’ve left notes to forget us and
I’ll rummage through every broken channel in search of my soul.
I feel a taste of my teeth in between the skeleton of leaves, the aftertaste of reminisce and a new found deep.
The skies have woven a path and lead to where the gorge stooped over the balaclava of the Earth.
I felt everything and nothing, a conch kept close to the heart, tidal waves jugular with your half moon eyes crashed against my chest, a chill travelled down my spine reinvigorating my sense of purpose.
I felt alive for the first time.
After you.
I know I’ve strode far towards the shore, the light piercing through every pore, an insatiable waning for ever more,
my lungs throb and my hands strife in the direction of the uprise.
My heart beats on, repeating a song of redemption, playing
“I’ll learn to swim in these lonely waters, at every horizon where I met me,
where the sun swallowed the sea.”
The wind exhaled with me, in unison with the spirit.
I was one with the wilderness,
the wilderness one with me.

You found a replacement;
I found myself.

What is love,
but a permission to
make a home of a heart ?

You were not the rose, but the thorn.

I have figured out why
I always want or need somebody,
or be in a relationship
with someone,
and it’s not because
I’m lonely or desperate,
it’s because I’m too fragile
to take on this harsh world alone
and I need someone
to be strong for,
to be strong for me.

With the close of each day,
and after every heartbreak
I come to the same realisation that,
You were the one and I let you go.

To describe depression would be like,
a power outage in an entire district
and you are the singular light bulb
running on the inverter/generator
glowing in the dark room,
keeping the darkness at bay.
But as time progresses
and the inverter charge starts to recede,
the light bulb starts to fluctuate
and the dark takes up more room
as the light trys it’s best to keep burning.
It fades in and fades out.
The filament dimming with time.
A never ending battle with the dark
until the electricity is turned back on.

And she whispered
"I never comprehended
The Universe to be tangible"
as she held him in her embrace.

I sighted the first dimension of the world when I first opened my eyes and saw my family, when I crawled on my knees and bit my little sister on her cheek, curiously peered at the galaxy that hung above her cradle.

I spotted the second dimension of the world when I felt a familiar hand pulling me up after
I fell down on the ground, leaving blood trails in the sand.
Waiting for the dust to settle, we assembled, the bell rang.
Tom foolery and first taste of success and defeat.
The first ***** of betrayal
and liaring practices.
Tom foolery and  a million hearts-crossed. Ageless friendships and lesson of life that wasn’t in the syllabus.
That abode that was school.
A remarkable reminder of the simple times.

I saw the third dimension of the world when I laid my eyes on your beautiful face.

These constant intersections,
bilateral contradictions
between head and heart
is just like any other war
and
just like any war
both sides
just want to stay alive
more than the freedom
they’re fighting for.

I like the anticipation
as the phone rings to
the sound of your voice.

Darkness is a riddle
muddled by light;
chanted at night
by your twinkly eyes.

You are my ******(e).

If you want to know a person’s current mood,
eavesdrop on the song they are singing in the shower.

I am not okay, and I am okay with that.