Let me in when the darkness comes
because I need the recognition which you
regard me with, as if your eyes truly
understand and feel the world of pain
I have within me. I needed you to save
me and you watched me,
you knocked like crazy on the metal
walls until they collapsed
and you caught me,
with all of my cracks.

I'm just so broken,
So weary,
But you still watched something.
You still saved something.
You still made something.

Something out of nothing.

You make me feel this way somehow,
as if I am so beautiful
that the earth will shatter
if I move like I know it.
And I know it now,
so let's watch me
break this world together.

Run away, my love. Just run away
with me. We are animals, lost
in bite marks and desperate visions
of bleak futures where you are no
longer here to light up my skies
with your starlight. My limbs are lost
to your touch, my mouth empty
as you breathe me in. I am
human only when you observe me.
There are no skull shaped prisons
or cries of terror, only
the sound of laughter ringing
like the songs of lost
birds in the night,
longing and true.

Give me that liquid fire,
which burns my throat
and blurs the edges of my existence.

Wellbeing is an illness that plagues my mind
regardless of what others believe it to be.

His words are fluid yet languid until
he changes tongues and becomes another
person entirely. His sounds become strong
and incomprehensible as he weaves
his way from language to language, dialect
to dialect. He is the manager
of worlds, the linguist. In his mind, his original
language is not his, for he is only
relaxed when amongst the foreign nature
of other languages. The rasping, uncommon
tongue of home is not comforting to him
anymore, so he will rapidly intake
other places until he finds another
sound that resonates within him.

I must have done something incredible
to deserve a friend like you. My karma
has finally aligned... or maybe it
is just luck. Before you, my head would hit
the pillow and I would beg for softness
to embrace me, to take me from this world
of barbed edges and harshly sketched faces
and into a place with beauty and wonder.
Now, softness awakes me. There are no jagged
lines or vacant expressions here, only
smoothness and blurred dots for daylight behind
the smiling face of future.

I smell the energy rising from you,
drifting swirls of vapour hitting me as
your heat embodies itself in the air's
molecules. I smell the importance of
you, significant to everyone except
me. You're a drug, coursing through their veins and
giving their brains exactly what they have
been craving, yet I am resistant to
your eniticing ways. The promise of that
electric focus as my heart picks up
the pace to follow everyone elses...
it doesn't appeal to me anymore.
I lost my hunger for you a long time
ago, when you started to wear me down,
and now the only drug I will ever
crave again is him.

Your white words are giving me nothing
but the deepest teals and greens -
deeper than the oceans themselves.
The waters are awake, encompassing
the earth and drawing us in with the wayward
tides, which are unsynchronised and lost
from reality. All I see in those waves of promise,
chopping and churning with wild ferocity
in the dark winds of night-time,
comes from a simple word. All colour
is implanted in my mind, in my imagination,
from a simple image that you conveyed with a
single, colourless word.

I do not understand how they do it,
having so much thought that they invented
an entire universe of elements,
components and small fixtures of greater
workings. Those incredible, beautiful
scientists, with their steam-crimped hair and curious
eyes; the wonderfully inventive mathematicians
who ponder over all knowledge in order
to realise something new - that is what
true beauty is. Chemistry, physics, biology
and maths are their own art forms, and what they
seek to create is more beautiful than my
words and paintbrush can ever dream.

The bite of your words in my ear, the touch
of your thoughts as they patter like specks of
rain on my skin, the feelings I have for
you, this undeniable and uncontrollable
attraction... they make my eyes glisten with
happiness and my stomach fill with nausea.
I cannot tell if this sickness that you
give me is just fear or if it is the
knowledge of an illusion that my heart
is presenting to everyone. Even to myself.

They say you are a rainbow, that you need
that lost beauty which cascades down in the
winter winds to reveal you. They say a
smattering of colour sprayed on the horizon,
which can be seen even on the clearest
of mornings, cannot be true, or have any
sense of clarity. They say that without
the rain, you would be dulled and colourless,
but I do not think you need the thunderous
awakening of the clouds to brighten my sky.

I am trying
but trying doesn't make
deep wounds heal any faster,

and you rubbing salt in them
does not help them to
hurt any less.

A balanced boy he was,
the equal of all neutrality,
yet she was enough to make him wild.

So close yet so far, the magnetisation
of atoms is wrenching me halfway across
the world towards you. I can feel your air,
inches from mine, yet time flinches away
from me. I would wish for nothing more than
to be caught in your embrace of fire - two
years of wishing, and now as the days count down,
I wonder if your breath, your voice, your nature...
if it will be the way I always expected.

You,
with your freckles
and your crazed brown eyes,
you can't help it.
Those longing sighs and
warped sights only for me.
Your breath is a songbird, your voice
a flock of birds all in harmony.
You are like the ocean,
the sky and the hazy,
confused line between them -
endless and effortlessly immense.

Yesterday is blue,
tomorrow's fading;
we'll fall into your sunrise
as I'm yours for the making.

The sea treated us kindly,
falling into our open minds
and rushing back to the start.
We tumbled down in the
waves together, with the
earth all around us to
keep us young forever.

There once was a mathematician, who
hypothesised long ago that I would
learn to love him. His words were all logic,
plans and placements, everything set in
stone for me to keep. He said that, one day,
my heart wouldn't break at the prospect
of love and that I would get over my
pure fear - of me, of him, of... us. He
promised that, one day, his love would be
returned to him when I realised exactly
what he was to me.

He was right.

But I was too late.

Poseidon's home sways with the water's
breeze, swirling bubbles and seaweed cocooning
a historical fantasy. The owner
of the oceans, it becomes a place of
refuge for the lost souls looking for beauty,
and every life force in existence is
prized at its worth. Swathes of coral, green, blue
and yellow undulate with the sand and
live, breathing in their silent protest as
they begin to be killed by our wretched
humanity. Our need to seep into
every orifice of the land and control
the very atoms which compose beauty
itself is what has created the complete
death of beauty, taking over this place
and corrupting it. Brown and black may as
well be red, for they are the land's blood. That
home of Poseidon, watcher of the
world and owner of the oceans, it did
not deserve to be murdered by a race
of idiots who were blind to the beauty
they were destroying.

If I could travel on a one way ticket
to the other side of the universe
instantaneously, I would do it
and take the other one. My scientist, my
love, my strayed away boy who will never
be. If those wormholes we dream of existed,
we would be together in a heartbeat
and away even sooner.

I am losing my mind, slowly but surely,
just like I was lost to your murky eyes
so long ago - never able
to find myself again. My head is collapsing,
caving inwards, and now I am too weak
for sanity, too weak for anything
other than being hollow. The part I
need to love him is lost in your mind, and
the part I need to love myself is lost
in my heart. Return to me, my love. My
lost, broken love. I need to feel you.

Come back to me.

Throughout the existence of our earth, beauty
and logic have never been as one. I
know that now because your beauty has no
logic to it, and there is no beauty
in describing you logically. These
functions and algorithms within me
cannot process your astounding beauty
and I cannot take it for one more second.
Why isn't there a fathomable reason
for your infectious smile, those eyes of earth,
or your face as it lights up entirely
when you see someone you love? No, my logic
cannot solve why you are so beautiful
as you shine in that light
which only I seem to see.

My home is far away from here, scattered
across a coast of cliffs and geometric
birds, singing their vectors and equations.
My home is miles away from here, sands of
marble and caves of ice, filled with memories
of falling and echoes of laughter. My
home is decades away from here, a vague
childhood conjoined to a vague life of remembrance.
Lost too young and found too old, but at least
I have my new home to keep me going.
Your shaped song and vague echoes of joy will
keep me upright in this place I exist in
until I will one day be home again.

There is a moment of warmth that everyone
is familiar with. It reminds us of home,
the heat soothing our shivering souls
and lighting up the dark. There is a moment
of peace that everyone is familiar with,
when we have that feeling of tranquility
that overtakes the chaos the second
another's arms hold us. The second we
know we are safe within the grasp of another
living being, it becomes easier to exist.
We fight and fight, never dropping our heads
and never wavering for a moment,
yet all of our guards are let down when we
allow ourselves to be so close to someone.
Kissing their shoulder or pressing your cheek
against theirs, an arm around them or with
your entire body - all embraces are
the same when they fill you with purpose and
wrap your heart in strings of multi-coloured fairy lights.

Days like this, I just need to be alone.
I am the chord that resonates within,
yet my music is tired and needs time
to breathe and build its strength again. I need
to have nobody to hear my wretched, desperate
song for one day, yet there is no time to
catch my breath and become strong. There is no
time to be tired. At the expense of myself,
I must look after others and my own life,
so I must continue onwards, despite
the blood seeping from my wounds of exhaustion.
Days like this, I need to pretend to be
social so I can try and fulfill the
expectations of everyone and everything
surrounding me, except it is all for nothing.
Alone, I am not good enough.
In company, I am not good enough.
That word destroys me: "Anti-social", for
it is no fault of mine that I find solace
when the door closes, the whine of tinnitus
bites into my skull and I am left in absolute silence.

It was a cold time. I lay in the frost
alone, immobile and blue from the treacherous
air, but then you passed and lay with me just
to keep me warm, seeing something worth saving
in my empty eyes. It was a cold life.
Yet movement came back to me, dispelling
the ice and banishing it from my heart.
You were the fire for me, the fire that gave
me my sight and filled my eyes with starlight.
The fire that heated me and danced with a
scarlet tranquility in the night, calling
me forward into safety and saving
me from the wind which so harshly froze my being.

I am becoming so sickeningly
happy, and now all I ever want to
do is dance to the music that your words
sing to me.

You are flawed, but that
is what made you so *******
great in the first place.

You and your wordless words - you
give them all to me when you
say you have none within you.
Your mind is a swirling pattern
of that non-existent voice, and
I am the comet, shooting through
your atmoshpere and becoming a
storm of fire, in delight as
words hit me. I don't know
if this will burn me up, but
all I know is that I love the
feeling of being on fire again.

I am dying within this body, and
it is only made worse by my terrible
indecision. I had never felt love
until that warm month of March, and now I
find myself with love for three.

First. You, my love, my starving, lonely love.
I love you, I miss you, I need you, yet
I cannot give myself to you because
you love me too. You love me more than I
thought was possible and, for fear of breaking
your sorry heart and cracking your icy
eyes into rivers, I cannot tell you.

Second. You, my love, my resonant, blazing
love. I love you, I hear you, I see you,
yet all you see is her, so I am not
allowed to. Your song ignites when she is there
and nobody exists or matters other
than her. Your graceful dancing is enough
to make me keep my silence, so  I cannot tell you.

Third. You, my love, my fleeting, dying love.
I love you, I know you, I want you. I
am counting down the days to tell you. Every
second, every moment, every hour of
every day is spent waiting until I
can tell you. You are everything to me,
setting me on fire and embellishing
me with your warmth. But now I remember.
I have a love for three, those three sections
of my own world which I know so strongly.
Therefore, I cannot give myself completely
to one walk of life, and I cannot tell you.

You are falling down a rabbit hole of
hatred for yourself, and I hate you for
it. I hate the part of your mind that turns
you against yourself, for you don't deserve
it. I am at the bottom with you, for
every pace upwards I will be there
to push you, but I fear that I will not
be strong enough to keep you upright for
the time it takes you to return to your
strength. I grow weak, and you sap my strength from
me unknowingly as I become increasingly
tired and lose the will to live, drained by
the parasite within that will not let
me truly connect. Can't you see that I
am bound by the black sludge around my tongue
which coats my words and keeps me locked inside?
I fear that I cannot help you, for I
am nothing except the waiting -
waiting for my time to die.

I never thought it would be like this, but
writer's block has become a person, and
you are him. You take my words in a wisp
of the wind and they whisper away from
me. I put my pen to paper and the
ink turns invisible as I move, for how
could I write something beautiful about you
when you are capable of being every word at once -
an entire dictionary with only one meaning.

It's impossible
to sleep for all these wayward
thoughts concerning you.

Your calling ends and I, instantly, am
eagerly awaiting the next. You change
me from introvert to extrovert, causing
me to seek out your company - you are
the warm place to restore my energy.
This is the week which will last a winter,
and this snowfall turns to vapour
as you thaw my frostbite.

Nothing. There is nothing within me, I
don't feel anything except the overwhelming
burn of tears in my eyes. I am
cynical and bitter, sad and destroyed,
and apathetic towards everything.

Except you.

You have brought a lighter colour to these
rotting walls - you are a vivid, emotive
shade of life. You brought me back to this fervent,
dizzying wildness that never stops tossing
and turning within me, even in the
motionless depths of darkness. Apathy
has been turned into an eager chaos,
the weather dissolving into northern green
around me as my tireless eyes gleam,
reflected in yours.

For a moment, everything lingered. Words
lay suspended in the evening air between
us and we sat together. The silence
cradled us and we had nothing except
enjoyment - the enjoyment of experiencing
one another - yet my eyes fell to the
floor as I realised that this was a mere
dream, being half the world away from you.

I'm afraid that I don't have much to offer
the world - I've had this dream of being an
artist since I was able to dream, and
as the reality approaches, I
grow increasingly afraid. What if these
words, these hands, the things that come from these fingers,
what if they are not enough for this cruel
world for which I have nothing to offer? I
only offer something to the people
of this world, yet that isn't even enough
anymore. Depressed thoughts push me into
a cycle of pushing and being pushed
away by others, yet the cycle is
a circular behaviour pulled into
the swift motion of a line. It is a
ball bouncing between two walls for eternity;
an object always moving forwards yet
only through the same two points, in a constant
state of deja vu. The happy face of
this out of time clock seems to be one which
people like to use, being friendly no
matter what. This depressive face, bleak and
lifeless and filled with wretched longing, is
one which those who cluster around other
faces are eager to abandon. Their
friendship is superficial; their love is
superficial; their faces are superficial.
Everything dissolves into superficiality,
a fog of poison around my dilapidated
mind, and I am left, alone, with nobody to love me.

This red sanctuary of want guides me through
the sacred breeze - memories of autumn
leaves flying and kissing against trees in
the moonlight. I am backwards in motion
yet forwards with my words, so listen to
the green winter as I give you the wild
despair that is my everything.

Shred this paper weight hanging from my mind
and watch me change into someone better.
The mists will clear and I will heal, becoming
new again. The colour will rush back to
the earth and the grey sky will evaporate
into vast stretches of iris. The deathly
creep of rot will fade and I will change,
watch me change into someone kinder. My
evolving personality will cause
this murky world to be shrouded with light,
to be clouded with right. Hatred will dissipate
and so will the hatred I hold for myself.
I will unbutton this skin of self loathing
and unsheath the gleaming within. I will spread
my wings and be free from this cage of expectation,
watch me change into someone stronger.

I cannot help but wish I was on the
first side, where life blooms in rippling
fantasies and all has colour.

On this side, where they said it was greener,
all is rotten and dead. I sent out my
poison and killed all of the grass, so now
there is nothing at all to shine its green
upon me.

Maybe I will catch someone's eye
The way she catches mine.

I was told that heartbreak is beautiful,
that I can use it to create something,
use my skills to create words of beauty
from the beauty of my pain. Yet I can't.
Pain before was my muse, but then you
replaced it and now you're gone. I have
no words because my words left me, you
took them. I wrote my love into an
ancient ballad of confessions, only for
you, and it turned out to be a goodbye.

I wrote my words into happiness from
my agony, in hopes of regaining
something. My agony turned to happiness,
and I was able to write the future.

I wrote my words into agonies from my
happiness, in hopes of it never happening
again. My happiness turned to agony
as I was able to write the future.

I wrote my words into alternate realities
where I had lost you, hoping to avoid
that pain. My fear turned into reality
for I was able to write the future.

So now, I am writing my words into a world
where I didn't lose you, venting my agony from
the happiness I turned into pain, in the hopes
that I can still write the future.

Dispersing into dust motes
As you catch the light
And glimmer as the stars do
Behind the clouds filled with my tears.
No sunshine on rainy days;
Without the sunshine from your gaze,
I am effortlessly lost in my efforts to be empty.
No need for sadness
When the cold freezes my heart -
My mind cold and dark
As songless larks fly nowhere.

All I need is the rush... the rush of emptiness which used to fill me up, the rush of agony which I used to ache for, which I still somehow ache for. I want to burn, to cry, to hurt; I want to feel empty. The sad thing is, I do not know how to live when happy. This happiness is suffocating, like a noose of positivity is choking me and I cannot escape. Let me plunge into the cold depths of pessimism and swim through glimmers of beauty to which I am blind. Let me be blind to this world I do not belong in. I am just afraid - afraid of losing... this. I am afraid of becoming lost to freezing cold waters as soon as I find comfort in the warmth. *I want to be empty so that the pain doesn't have to take away this incredible fullness.

Listen, because I think this is something
you need to hear. You are not a failure.
You have not failed yourself by being upset.
You have not failed the world by being yourself.
You failed to be happy, but that does not
make you a failure. You are yourself, you
look like yourself, you feel like yourself, and
there is nothing more beautiful than who
you are. Do not look to others for the
beauty you feel you do not possess, because
if you look within, you will see beauty
like you never thought could exist. If you
live life as yourself, you will become more
beautiful than you could imagine. Look
at yourself like I look at you, and you
will become more beautiful than you could
imagine. You are more beautiful than
any imagination thought you could be.
Imagine that.

This static rain
is singing me to sleep
as the darkness engulfs your voice.

This ecstatic pain
is an unsettling creep
of silence becoming the noise.

Like forgotten cables
on the floor,
we intertwine ourselves
and can't seem to be undone.

You tell me you want to know,
but tell me what you really mean.
Through the lines, you say, "Lie to me",
scattered dilapidation being the incorrect
way of being. I must let this darkness out,
yet instead I give you light. If only
the light I lied was enough to permeate
my dreary, opaque existence.