Diamond beads roll off my skin
Sweaty hands and age old gin
Sunshine pupils in candy eyes,
Crying gumdrops and sugarcoated lies.
Raindrops on my fingertips
Poison blood on broken lips
Black and blue painted thick
Cheeks flushed red; a simple trick
**** yourself but stay alive
On your rotting soul they'll thrive.
The shadows of forgotten thoughts,
Who rap themselves around your heart
And suffocate the breath you wished was gone
Turned my sunshine into war

I don't feel better anymore.

She's so thin.
She's so nice.
She could really light up a room with that grin.
Her blue eyes sparkle when she cries.
Her hair is like silk,
woven,
from a spider of golden.
And her skin is soft and pure like milk.
I'm not jealous.
Far from it, actually.
I have no reason to be.
I'm thin.
I'm nice.
My laugh can fill a room, it's so loud,
and I'm not afraid to fight.
My hair is red and gold and brown.
She's blond and beautiful.
That's just who she is.
So I shouldn't be jealous.
And I'm not.
It's just, I'm surrounded by blond and beautiful,
the brunette feels out of place.
When those Blond and Beautiful shine so bright,
It hurts my eyes and I hide my face.
I'm the odd man out.
But that's okay.
Cause I'm Brunette and Beautiful,
Or so I assume.

The most beautiful thing I've ever read-
was a love poem that I found,
hidden between the dusty cupboards of my mother's room,
filled with things that just
"didn't matter"
anymore.

It was flooding with thoughts I waved off as-
"foolish"
with fake plastic vows of love,  
not unlike those crisp, shiny valentine heart rings,
only given to the most attractive every February.

Stories of parting,
from which shone a glossy sparkle like that of a fake glass diamond,
labeled with black numbers as something worth a thousand.
I've always thought that if you were going to leave someone, you should be aloof and cold.
If you make "warm memories", won't the parting just be that much harder?

That sunset that was described as being unrealistically
ethereal,
I tried to see it myself,
even hooking my feet around the cold metal bars of the balcony,
and pretending that I could fly.
But that sunset was fake too, I discovered.
A synonym of those medals that you eagerly await to get, but in the end,
aren't gold,
or silver,
but just a sheet of mocking plastic,
thousands of identical ones of which have been made,
in a factory choking on smog,
thousands of miles away,
in China.

There was always that villain,
who would try to break the lovers apart.
Sometimes,
the villain was described as, "dark", and "Irresistible".
I was puzzled by that fact,
mulling obsessively over the idea,
Why didn't the protagonist get with the villain in the end?

I was undeniably jealous, of the heroine,
who seemed to draw everyone to her with a warm light,
that I didn't seem to have, no matter how hard I tried.
She was a perfect damsel in distress,
waiting for her partner, who would always,
always,
without fail, come to save her from danger and the unknown.
They were both risking everything for what they loved.

"Stereotypical love poem,"
I scoff,
willing myself to throw that piece of paper away with the trash,
But-
to this day, the most beautiful thing I have read,
is that stereotypical love poem,
now tucked between two bookshelves,
which are full of things, that
"matter"
now.

if you were comatose i wouldn't worry so much**

everything i write i write for you so when you read this please stop and
close your eyes and
notice me leaning against your back and reading over your shoulder sometimes i
reread my words and try to imagine how you feel when you
read them
but i read them and i feel so empty i hope you don't feel the same because
people have told me i made them cry but
i find that hard to believe when i just make myself
bored
just know i'm curling around your feet i'm hoping my words will help you when you want to hurt
i'm hoping you know i wrote this for you because
i know you read this in the dark in your room in solitude with
the light of your screen turning you
pallid and blue but
you know
blue is better than red
black words on a white screen i read once that monotony is ataractic but it
just makes me itch and
i hope i'm an anomaly and you're part of the norm because i don't know how to make you feel
something i don't know but
i'm trying everything i can
i want you calm i hope my words can be
a soporific for you they say
that you're not alive unless you hurt unless you never stop moving but
in that case maybe i want you in a coma because
i saw what
being alive
did to you
please sleep they say it isn't art if it doesn't make you
uncomfortable if it doesn't make you itch but
artistry was never in my future anyway i just want you to have my words when
you want to test your nerves to see if they're
picking up any signal at all because
your emotions are flatlining but maybe the physical sensation's still there and
you are so ragged and i hope i smooth your edges at night when you can't sleep and you seek out
the light that makes you pallid and words
written just for you and
maybe that night you won't
itch so bad
i wrote this for you because i know when you're alone with pallid light and music you
want to hurt but please
close your eyes i'm right behind you i'm
leaning over your shoulder and trying not to cry because
you don't need another burden cause
all your thoughts are
the heaviest material on earth but i can make it better
i can make my words meaningless enough that they can lift you up just
a little more you
don't have to stand on your own my words can hold some of the weight because
maybe you grew up too fast or maybe not at all cause
i can tell your body is far too heavy for your heart to support and
sometimes your hands are too far away for blood to reach them
cause a pulse can only do so much and
sometimes it feels like simply living is another type of malaise but
maybe i can ease that just for the minute it takes for you  to read this and
close your eyes and
feel me against your back i
just make myself bored but maybe i can help you
i hope my words are so monochrome they help you sleep
i hope my words are so empty they're like
air sacs to help you stay upright  i
hope nothing i say resonates with you because
the world gives you enough to swallow you don't need one thing more
my words can be your sleeping pills
i wrote this for you so you could sleep easy tonight
and i'll hold your hand and hope you don't dream

I've always thought that the world was only in black and white,
and that the people who saw "shades of gray, or black," were the ones who knew nothing.

Maybe I was born with a blindfold.
Maybe that's why I saw nothing.
Perhaps I was just afraid of thinking that there were that many possibilities in the world,
and having to chose one of a million-
it's scary, you know?

There are people who say-
"Don't feel like you have limitations."
Truthfully,
I prefer-
"The Sky's the limit."
Because then I can tell myself,
"It's okay. You don't have to go on forever."

What are the differences between human and machines?
My belief was-if you looked through the dead lens of a robot-
then you would see the opacity of the world, splattered along the melted colors of a chessboard.

Even if I did believe in "colors",
people who think that they can create something "new"
I would say,
"Why are you mixing them together?"
*Isn't that just the same definition?

and sometimes it is because the words dry up on my tongue
and sometimes it is because I do not know how to say it

more than often I do not write
because I am afraid.

I tried so hard to avoid the stereotypes
I tried so hard that I didn't realize
I was becoming one.