For a thousand times
that you've been through the motions
of your masquerade,
I understand,
nobody warned you about mouths
crammed with infuriated fires,
each take aim to be shot through you.

You have mastered the art
of veiling the damage:
a little rekindling
not to mend it over,
only to stop the utter fallout.

For a thousand times,
every dark of the night
that you've trembled when you shrink back
into your flawed self,
you've heard your demons
hum the melody of the undamaged:
"Never good enough.
You must be this,
you must be that."

For a thousand times
that your demons taught you
to seize the blaze
that once hurt,
that once made you snivel with fear,
with angst, with hatred,
little by little,
I sighted you craft yourself
into the brink
of a monster
you said
you
would
never
be.

She lived a selcouth life,
far too warped to be believed about,
amid her favorite symphonies
and spellbinding verses that never end,
mad about gritting chains of twisted worlds
as she painted oeuvre of art locked up in her core.

"It is but a tragedy to take wing in your flight of fancy.
Let me guide you to the world that you loathed to see,"
a melodious affliction I told her
as I sighted the glisten in her face shattering into ruins.
"Darling, look at all the beautiful people,
look at the horrible things they utter.
Why are you terrified of the piercing gunshots?
How is the aftertaste of blood
surging through the avenue of misguided folks?
I hope you are enjoying the show.
Come, let me bare to you a whole lot more."

And she wept, screamed at my face,
threw me strings of her innocent voice,
she choked and it cleaved me up inside.

What have I become?
A murderer of this child's peace?
Or a rescuer from her naïve make-believes?

She feels like a ruined fortress:
shaking, now shattering, now gone astray,
now digging up, creating a dark hole;
deep enough to lock herself away
with her raging riddles' ablaze desire
to reach him with their throbbing hands.

"How can such a lovely thing
be surged with so much pain?"
He murmur softly in her ears,
and all she can hear are words
like poison keeping her blaze at bay.

And then she cries, she cries not tears
but blood streaming down her fence,
blotting with marks of his name—
once a nirvana to her, now a wasteland
crammed with thunderous cries
of her cluttered self letting last words escape,
"I was once a serene citadel,
now just a lovely thing for someone
mastering the art of constructing lies."

I remember that last drunken sundown
when the only way to benumb the pain
is to let ourselves sank in too much whiskey;
unchained those timid unspoken riddles.

I was naïve.
Screamed metaphors into your ears,
thinking you'd craft raging poetry
I always had refused to do myself.

You were full of twists and turns.
Grubbed up burgeoning song at the back of your head:
"Just another deluded heart to stomp on,
just another faked feeling to choke upon."
And just when the melody
began to breathe its last breath,
I saw your wrecked body almost caved in.

I always knew that—
You were so caught up into thinking
you did so much damage
into an already damaged heart
that you refused to lay your hands
on it once more.

You always knew that—
You made me so fearful of losing someone again
that I refused to let anyone else in.

We always knew that—
We might not work out in the real world
but we will, at an alternate nirvana.

You weren't there during my nightfall
when my subconscious illusion
constructed nerve-racking thoughts,
causing my eyes to spill tears out
down the false face I stitched
that you never fretted to take off.

You weren't there to see me in distress
with razor blades rubbing my crust.

My core―it forbade every irate pain
that battered its almost wrecked doors.

You weren't there to hunt the screams
that bounced off those ill-starred walls,
creating cracks that I loathed to see
for they offered me images that blinded me.

You weren't even there to tell me
that life isn't always a battlefield
between me and myself.

How is it that you only care when it's too late?
Sorry, but I won't be there to take hold of your tears
as you are being struck with angst
and your gone-too-soon moans,
still stunned with the great tragic―
a box my size sinking right before your eyes,
hush, darling, save your cries.

What a lovely night it is
to strike my head right in half
until all the words come pouring out
crammed with my thoughts of you.

Anguish and penitence
with a deluge of blood and tears
tainted the pure pages
as I delve into the deepest parts of my brain
and grub up the harrowing
yet beauteous sparks of our yesterdays.

Oh, the agony;
the ache that clench my core,
twisting and tearing and wrecking my bone,
that once again benumbed
by the memory of your crooked soul,
haunting my mind whispering,
"Love was a curse,
and your heart was a place
where it couldn't bloom."

I'm having this recurring nightmare
nightmare as others see it
amid the wandering minds
that refuse to be slaves
from the deceiving vision
of the real world.

Delightful, it is
to be with sincere beings
who find such beauty
behind faults that I crave
so madly to fade out,
looking closely into my eyes,
exploring my deepest core
of countless untold stories.

"This isn't your paradise,
this isn't a place to hide,
not even a place to cure the pain
that burnt deep inside,"
whispered a voice unfamiliar
caressing my helpless body,
thrusting it to a never-ending hole,
inviting me to an eternal sleep.

To awake is now everything I grieve.