I have crushed flowers in my palms only to smell my hands and then step on the wrinkled petals. I have stolen hearts like the funny little things I took from the thrift store that I realised I never really wanted. I have left a bitter aftertaste in my ex lovers' mouths after seducing them to consume my poison. I have a propensity for bad intentions as a defense mechanism I can't switch off.

It's better if you stay away.

*AA

Sometimes we forget we're human. We make mistakes, we fail, we get blood on our hands. We forget that even after that, we are capable of better, and growth, and forgiveness. We forget that we deserve peace, however big the wrongdoing, or how badly we've been burned. We forget that everyone's fighting their own battles, we forget reason. We forget to understand and listen.

*AA

Little paper boat floating down the stream
Where the currents take it, there it will go
No sail of its own, no direction it controls
No anchor to tether it down, should it wish to halt
Round and round it goes, stuck in a little whirlpool
In its universe that is the stream
Nameless, it floats about in what it knows as its sea
Oblivion, let’s call it – forever detached it will be
And when the stream dries up, its journey will cease to be
Its true destination, albeit, it will never know

- http://ashez1607.wordpress.com

Effortlessly, I lose myself within You:
Forgotten, yet never quite out of reach,
Your name penetrates the thin arch of my spine,
As I curl my legs up towards my arduous chest,
Burrowing deep into the cavity that
Should hold my red, pulsing heart.

I can feel You all around me;
Memories dance like poetry,
Tumbling out of my lips into the empty air,
And, for a moment, Your warm breath
Caresses my face, as I shift toward
The unimposing wall, letting the cool plaster
Press up against my outstretched palms.

You're never more tangible,
Than when I lie in silence
And listen to the rhythmic hypocrisy
Of my own, insidious breath.
Even spoken sentences, are full of white
Spaces, in between pauses and punctuation.
Empty, and cavernous- blank canvases
Awaiting Your subtle presence.
Hungrily, words rush from me
As if to pave the way for Your fleeting occupancy.

Is this how it feels to be alive?
Father Time wraps his long, gnarled fingers
Around Your soft, golden neck,
Until all the vitality is lost beneath his sorry,
Decrepit hands, which yearn for Your being,
So much that they crush it into yesterday.
While, I sit helplessly observing, a defiled bystander,
Preparing Your eulogy while You laboriously heave for air.

Now, alone in the cool dark of my bedroom,
I repeat my penance a thousand times,
Silently, whispering a lovers remorse,
While twisting and squeezing the last drop
Of feeling onto an indifferent page,
Diluted by almost there prose
And ambiguous metaphors:

My wilted rose, I feel You now
Your once silk petals pressed upon my lips,
Hardened by all that has passed,
A frail remnant of what You once contained.
Pinks and reds of the sunset fall stagnant against
Your rosy cheeks and evanescent silhouette.  
Oh, flower of all flowers, why must You wilt
Upon my plucking of Your fleshy stem?
Is not the beauty of Your ardent life
Strong enough to flood out
The doubts which devoured Your fragrant
Body like malignant parasites?
For while time must tread along,
Can you not stay the way You once were then?

You showed me life, yet took it away
When You exhaled the world with a final leap,
Leaving me here to gather the fragments of a story,
And a vocabulary of feelings
That I can no longer sense.
So, instead, I hover motionless
Above my vacant corpse,
Filling the spaces that You left
With the skeletons of words.

My Sorry Muse, my Own Remorse
Embodied in a Soul,
You took Your  life and gave me words,
But my voice: the afflicted toll.

I think I had an epiphany last night
I tried to sum up how I felt but it didn't sound right
Descriptions come easy to me
When I have no attachments
I'm good at building up emotions
If I'm supplied with the fragments
From an outside source
If the path is paved
I'm willing to take the course
How can I make my claim to fame
When I can't standout
Without becoming the same
I need everyone else to convince me I'm sane
As I confess my inner motives
They become lost in vain