1

Because I was born into poverty
I learnt some of life's most valuable lessons

2

Because I don't over-rate my skills
I suffer from few disappointments

3

Because I could not flatter nor compromise
some people kept away from me

4

Because I recognise the ways of the world
I am not easily fazed

5

Because I know life is too short
I don't fritter time away in idle indulgence

I slow to a yellow crawl,
I watch the meadows filled
With bloodstained roses,
Beneath crystalline eyelids
I see the fire burns in all directions.

I rush a rush to nowhere,
Everywhere standing still.
I yearn to claw the sky black,
I speak in a the archaic language,
The sorrow understands.

I come forth by action
And spew tattered verses,
I sleep in the blood of dreams
And awaken in secular ******,
Alone with everyone.

The curtain closes on my being,
Neither here or there,
My steps like an echo
Chasing my future steps;
Only the words to me are real.

I am an artist.
I can make myself into something new
every day.
Imagine the possibilities you could
innovate,
Just let me know what you want.
Here, flip through this magazine for some
ideas,
And tell me what you like best!
It’s all about pleasing your audience
anyways,
It doesn't matter what I want,
Nobody cares about that.
They just want to see something pretty.

I sculpt and paint imagery out of tools
To end up with a fake canvas.
Day to day I suppress myself with the lies.
I chip and chisel,
Dissect and carve,
Bits and pieces,
Until I’m left trembling,
Just to be tossed away in the end.

Splashes of red,
And strokes of black ignite your appeal,
And this is what you label as real?
Hunger strikes itself through the bones
Revealing its power through the limbs
Of the body, eye sockets, sinking down,
Down,
Down.
Death could possibly be the resemblance.

What a terrible piece, a shame it is.
Maybe just a few more tweaks,
And it will at least look halfway decent.

Trim down the sides,
Thin out any extras,
Fill in what is needed.
Even just a tad more color,
Then we have something.

Time strolls by,
A year soon passes,
And one day I just happen to actually
stop,
And look at my masterpiece,
But only for a moment.

In the mirror,
A reflection stares back at a wretched,
Ghostly,
Figure.
Beads of liquid build up into my pallid
eyes,
Unable to contain the weight of their
reasons any longer,
Tears begin to burst,
They trickle down my rose stained
cheeks,
Fueled by the absence of perfection,
And I feel nothing.

Needs more work.

From wretched ancient under-dark it spills
Aerosolized hatred, malice and strife
Indiscriminate in who it kills
The southern wind, enemy of all life.
Malevolent sirocco, seething with wrath,
Melting metal, human flesh, skin and bone
Painful is death for all trapped in its path.
For what great sin will this wind atone?
Eleventh plague, locked away by god,
Grisly screams for mercy choked off by gust
Nothing dares to grow were this wind has trod.
All who smell the wretched scent turn to dust.
Movements silent, striking without warning
Lucky are those who live until morning.

every achy bone inside me a relic
of the former self still inhabiting this shell.
exquisite fossils of the life once lived
my silhouette, housed in rock,
yet the softest part of me rotted out.
the vacancy in my expression
mirrors the hollowed out spaces
between each rib and every "what if"
my lungs carry haunted cries
apparitions you forged in my memory
phantom fingers singed the word
“remember” into my paper skin.
i am still smoldering.
chambers of my heart filled with cobwebs;
every strand of silk an unfulfilled wish.
we are still tangled up.
the spiders have crawled from our throats
but the dust is settling.
your fingers have intertwined
with the segments of my spine,
fists taking root in my chest, cradling a stone heart.
knuckles bent comfortably around each vertebrae,
your hands are cold.
the weight of all my sins is crushing me,
i suppose i should have noticed
when you read the lines in my palm like an obituary.
forgive me.

- m.f. & j.a

I would liken you
To a night without stars
Were it not for your eyes.
I would liken you
To a sleep without dreams
Were it not for your songs.

two candles but they're only your eyes.
twisting and contorting, and they can articulate your desires better than your mouth ever could.
candle wax only exists on the crests of your cheekbones when your eyes have been blazing for days.
they drip down in patterns that God himself could only hope to decipher.
your eyes as they burn are subjective only to the sound of her voice, or the curvature of her body as it writhes beneath you.
your visceral reactions have nothing on the hidden semantics that litter her skin.
ubiquitous presences gazing down at you, gazing down at her, windows fogging and cracking.
now, This is Poetry
          This is Catharsis
this is raining hell down on her until she's every saturated colour she could never define.
like forcing her to write every pro and con of sleeping on the floor while you held a gun to her head.
and she knows better than to scream with the lights turned on.
give me guided meditation as a self defence mechanism.
give me self reflection as a form of shock therapy.
give me militant offensive tactics.
give me blood, give me a martyr.
whisper her name into the sheets and send them into space.
and let them drift along forever.
and send her into space after them.
and admire the way it can rob her of her last breath the way you never could.
maybe now you can look yourself in the eye in the mirror.
maybe you can stop burning all those ******* candles.
maybe now you can stop trying to burn yourself down.

I can't write pretty words,
let alone speak them.
Pretty words don't leave my head
now that I feel alive again.
I almost feel no pain,
I almost feel no happiness.
I'm totally okay,
and I think it's driving me insane.

scientists have said
humans are the only
organisms able to
express their thoughts,
but i often find that
to be untrue.

if people could
directly communicate
their emotions and feelings
i would know what is
happening
between me
and you.