Love
Not merely confined to the faces within the safe walls of your own, small
World.
Love stretched
Rather to accommodate the new faces of everyday life -
Yet never wearing out. Though, met with a certain few that frustrate with expressions bearing the weight of strife -
The grey-haired man in queue to pay for groceries with a quarrelsome wife;
The raven-haired girl with eyes to reflect them;

Love in turn smiles
A contagious smile. Though, rarely returned with even a slightest grin.
You see, to some, smiling is an expression of love, and perhaps not everyone is filled with so much that it has no choice but to overflow, like sweet honey from a cup.

I can't tell which I despise more

to be swept over and pulled under
by the violent currents of sadness, of anger, of frustation, of confusion -
by every single emotion
some I can't even give a name to
until my lungs are **** near full of water

or to float on the river
and not even feel the water lapping at my skin
and not even take notice of the cool and the blue of this liquid mirror under me

I find myself wanting to run (away), both figuratively
and literally.

My feet carry me through all-too-familiar places;
at a steady, slow pace
in hopes that
it will stop my mind from dragging me to strange ones;
(ones I might not be able to find my way back from)
in a frenzied, impulsive motion.

But again, this effort is in vain.

My feet slow to a walk, then to a stop.

I look into your eyes and they hide absolutely nothing
in all their shades of
brown.
They're not the type one could get lost or drown in ;
so tell me why
I find myself wanting to dive in still
- and head first -
when I can see the bottom
so ******
clearly

I will not bow.
To these demons
of depression, of anxiety, of emptiness, of isolation,
of self-destruction.

I will not cower.
To agree or disagree; to break or simply to bend,
that is my only power.
To remind myself that I have the upper hand.
(For all those years ago, the battle had been fought, and for us victory has been bought)

I will not be trampled underfoot.
It's true that my God, in a grave, was put -
but it is also, that He rose again.

And for that reason, in death
I will not remain.

The world calls my Passion
'human',
but my God, how It rages
whether you give yourself over to It or not;

sooner or later

It begins to twist; It mutates
and its true form is revealed
- oh It is much more inhuman,
and oh, how much more severely the world is mistaken -
than anyone could have
imagined.

Passion, It bares its fangs through its hellish
ear-to-ear grin, saliva dripping off its teeth in the most
hypnotic, animalistic fashion.

Those who place themselves in between its very jaws
(and they are Most),
caring only that this demon of theirs
has enough to eat, a full belly:
an appeased appetite(monstrous as it is)

they are left to starve,
a decaying image.

It's hard fighting for what you want,
and it's *hard fighting for the greater good;

but fighting against what your very self desires,
your heart's desires,
in all its destructive, frothing rawness;
for the greatest good?

"Impossible"
resounds, and it ricochets off the walls of my mind into a series of never-ending; ear-splitting; soul-dividing screams.
Yet, another voice, still and small
- one that most of the world is deaf to -
drowns out entirely all else
the moment I turn my ears to it.
And it belongs to
you.

Yellow seeps into my field of vision from the edges. A subtle evil ...
and I know
what's coming next. My heart picks up speed like my adrenaline-addicted brother's car does on a free road. Perspiration forms on the small of my back;
accompanied by odd flashes of heat in a room cold enough that most are wearing jackets - or well, wish they had brought one.
And suddenly I find myself on the ground, hiding away in some musty closet(which is not all that bad a place to be, really)
still as can be
so as not to aggravate the monster, the one beginning to stir in me.
A growing tornado, spinning,
searching for a subject on which its all-consuming discord may be unleashed upon.
Myself.

I begin to think of the comfort I crave so immensely in this moment,
and how it can possibly be acquired;
of the satisfaction of tearing up an entire pile of paper(popping bubble wrap won't do this time);
or stabbing something - anything - with a knife, until whatever is left is beyond recognition;
or striking the surface in front of me until my knuckles turn black and blue, and red;
I know I must stop thinking now.
So instead, I try to purge the bloodthirsty-ness through my tears,
and cries to God to help dissolve my fears.
I am so
tired.
The turmoil within calms a little after some time - it has to appear so on the outside, anyway.
I cry and beg and pray that I will not return to the land from which I have been brought such a long way, though I know my efforts are not necessary.

For I have deep confidence that I will not,
and that morning will come.
For His faithfulness reaches as high as the skies,
and His peace transcends.

Trust me when I say that on Wednesday night, the storm which transpired seems to have lasted a mere millisecond compared to one moment spent in His embrace.
I realize then for the thousandth time:
He is the true source, the only source, of comfort.

You are in; you are a part of, a member of,
Every being I see, alive and breathing or not.

You are within, though I am the one who seems to appear
To be trapped and unable to flee from the apparent akin-
Ness to your being in every one thing that I see.

You are in all that I see. I wish I could obliterate : the very key to the coming to be of your existence. At the expense, of course, of the world
Disintegrating into something a little less;
Beautiful, breathtaking, for the multitudes of passers-by and so much more
- enormously - less; for those who have stopped by a little while, though evidently long enough a period to bring to pass regrets that ebb and flow so constantly after.
A minute would have been enough for that to happen. Time is a concept not recognized in your company.

And nothing at all.
Nothing at all; their world would perish, pass away - for those who have stayed, and remained
in you, and you in them.
But because I will never (again) have this pleasure, of possessing this
Treasure; this riches - I might just as well render
Myself blind.

It isn't as if I could, or would, stand to listen to the same pleas that weren't mine.

Some nights I don't even care
that you don't care and that's how i know we're both
burnt out, like cigarettes, sticking to the walls of the other's lungs;
maybe i'm just fooling myself because deep down i know
that really, we were just
matches that wouldn't light from the start...
They say suicide is attempted every 40 seconds but i doubt
you'd bother to get to know me well enough to
break into me through the balcony and not my bedroom window within the seconds left- 39,
38,
37,
36...
i'm confident that you had me falling under 20..
You didn't even bother to catch my eyes through
the bars today, you didn't even bother to find out
that my very own existence might be able to be summed up in the way I've thought of the rain hitting the
pavement as tiny dancing butterflies ever since i was five..
four, three...
Why would you speak as if you were pulling me close when really all you've been doing, is pulling me apart?
Why would you remind me to stop holding my breath
when I've been catching my breath on you?
I don't want you in my lungs

I would always ask if you were
A hundred percent alright. And you would always respond with ninety-five percent. The other five being with me.
But today I asked you again as I sat out in the rain
With my feet freezing - though certainly not as
Cold
As the gaps between each of our own sentences
We both were painfully aware should not be there. A hundred and one percent, you told me.
And maybe that is how I know that I don't mean anything to you anymore.

blank

I am so
In love with you.
Your tongue on my ear, your lips
Making their way down to my
Neck. Fingers tugging at your hair.
I am so
In love with you.
"If you're planning to kiss me, I want
To be sure
We last."
I am so
In love with you.
My lungs burn and
Straining vision through blinded eyes. And you let me.
You let me catch my breath on you.
I am so
In love with you.
I swear you get me on highs and have me
Clawing at my skin
Next. Red rubber band welts
To stop the tears from rushing down.
I lick my lips and taste
Fear of losing you.
I am so
In love with you.

That girl, she's so alone.
Sipping at long black, trying not to make it too obvious that it burns too bitter. Like she thinks it will make stone hearted boys fall more in
love with the porcelain shading flaws.
Seeking love in strong hands; she can't stop hers from shaking
That girl, she's so empty, warming her lungs with mugs of scorching tea.
Like she can feel the calm seep into her bones and the green webs that lay almost entirely visible just beneath her skin.
Hushing bruises.
Like pretend alcohol, haze thick enough to fog up her glass
eyes; glaze over. She won't have to feel, not for the night..
Like she does what she does in hopes of filling the space in her.. Like she wants the things of the world to love her, one-way street.

Mother knows best,
mother knows me.
But only as what I choose to have expressed.
Mother knows best,
That is what they say, but merely as a guest,
Mother knows me.
Lest, she comes to see the side of me that is not
At rest.

Mother knows best,
mother is wise.
Stacks of hard cover notebooks, half used.
Mother knows best,
mother reads.
The words, in poems that rhyme at a reader's behest
Not the ones that leak from
The gaps, in my hastily stitched up wounds.

Mother knows best,
mother sees.
The scars, I have made
On this tight vest we call our skin.
Mother knows best,
Tell me, is that why she brushes off as pests,
The scars, that lay shadowed just under my chest?

Mother knows best,
with her I am blessed.
That is why.
Mother knows best, but not about me.
Lest, it be to her
Distress.
That is
Why, Mother knows best.

I can
Feel you
Slipping through my
Fingers; the same ones yours intertwine with
Just for the
Warmth.

I'm going crazy
I'm going insane
Please someone
Put me
To rest
Fleeting yet vicious
Thoughts
Are racing through my mind by the
Thousands
I am afraid
I am losing
My mind
I'm thinking
The faint disturbing sounds
From their bedroom
(The strangers I've been living with my whole life)
I'm thinking
I'm wasting away
My life and
My soul
Is rotting and ageing with every
Second
And there is no
Time to stop
Not for breath, not for anything
To the point that
these commas I use feel so
Out of place
Like the words my mother
Gives
As I ask
For synonyms to the words
I deem unfit for
People
Who read
And to those who mock, taunt and ridicule
I hope you understand
That these letters
Addressed
To whoever takes the time to study me twice
Are keeping me from
Running out into
The busy
Road.

Who would have known?

The chatter in the hallways,
the scent of which a girl would love
to have linger
on her garments.
Who would have known?
That stained skin and wild eyes
would have
stolen those divine lips.

You leave me speechless and my words
are rusting in the back
of my throat.

You have commenced a war within me;
your fingertips blazing and your tongue
echoing gunshots off the roof my mouth.

I would burn to the ground,
merely to see you with tear-stained flowers for me.
I despise the control you have over me.
It is terrifying;
the unspoken promise that the heartache you cause will be of the Red in
shades of grey.

We used to be able to cause forest fires.

Waiting, pacing back and forth,
the oxygen around me seems
suffocating.
Please, be here soo-
thunk
Narrowly missing my **** nerves.
The bedroom window!

"Hurry!"
I hear you urging me with an anxious smile and the beads of sweat trailing
down your neck,
cold heat.
Within minutes we are
running faster
than the midnight wind could ever carry us,
occasionally stumbling on our exhilaration,
but what was only short-lived.

Time stops only for those who realize it doesn't exist,
and I almost forget that the train doesn't stop
with
it.
Only seconds to spare...
"Push me when it comes."

Had I said it out loud? It echoes off the walls of the tunnel and reaches your
ears.
A look of horror crosses your face but you act with less
hesitation than
I had
expected.

I swear I've tried to dance the sadness away but now I find myself tr ippi n g,
f a l
       l i n
              g, blades caressing my jaundiced skin, flames licking at
         my throat. Catching breath on
    pistol shots.
The ballerina slows her dance in my veins.

Shoelaces wired around my ankles in my haste to get away, but you get yourself undone each time, entangled in my
impetuousness.

Take off down the drunken streets
with dim streetlights holding onto the last breaths
of winter itself.
Your feet are light, as the night is
young,
it seems like you're slicing through thin mists at half past five on a Saturday morning,
or barefoot with the grass beneath right after a midnight drizzle.
You're running towards dawn, you think,
but it's just as though it is a bright light at the end of a tunnel,
and after all this time-
does the dark feel
more like home?
Or have you simply been in the dark for so long that the light seems like an abandoned, cold house
brought to the present(though it certainly isn't the best gift you've recieved) from your childhood?
Force yourself to stumble on your hesitation,
blame it on the stones scattered on the road.
Look up, everything's
fading,
just
like
you.
You pick yourself up,
but now it seems like you're in a nightmare(are you not?) with the Bogey Man right behind,
your feet chained to rocks twice the size
of your own two feet.
And you're sinking, ever so slowly.
But how can you not be aware of it? There is nothing else to notice at all.
You know you will never escape,
you're one of them now.
Keep running, keep running,
do not die in vain.

You've told me
and you've been telling me
that the only place you're willing to be alive in this cruel world
is on rooftops
And that you've piled up many memories
there
is the only thing you say when I ask
why
It doesn't quench my curiousity at all
and from time to time I find myself wondering
Why?
Perhaps it gives you
peace of mind
Or maybe
it is the way the rain feels as it beats down on you and weighs you down(just like the whole world)
while you torture yourself with memories you've spat out again and
again
Or it could just simply be
the part of you
that craves the beauty of the night sky and the stars scattered all over her(like the freckles on your skin)
and the moon
how she's sworn herself to secrecy with secrets you've whispered in your sleep
and that she feels just like you
do -
plagued with darkness
outshone by others
and so, very, very cold
your
lips
are
in the pouring rain
us closer to the moon
than anyone in the neighbourhood
(perhaps she knows there is one more lonely soul admiring
beauty she could only ever envy on others.)

Whispers in the night
I will listen from
the window I have merged into
They stain my frame
like Jack Frost on winter nights
Nothing goes unheard

We shall not descend
I find solace in secrets you've hid in shadows of rooftops and you
in storms
Rain trails skin like unfinished sentences

She paints
Dark spilt ink on sheets of thick paper
and damp patches scattered
                        Masterpiece

I feel myself
evaporating like morning mist
As I drift higher and
higher from the ground
And I reach the sky and
finally,
them
Clouds made up of those
who have faded away-
millions

His fingers
ignited a fire within her,
and she had a kerosene heart,
and cried gasoline tears,
and it was far too late;
she was nothing but ashes and thin smoke
that disappeared soon enough.

It was Monday
you walked me home,
and i was (very) pleasantly surprised
even though
my face was hard and cold
and focused on the newly-tarred road
because I remembered you weren't mine (anymore) after all
We made small talk
but that was it
I wasn't really listening anyway

It was Tuesday
you walked me home
and i was (very) pleasantly surprised
(i was hoping, but not expecting)
I let a small smile play on my lips
when you reached for my bottle and took two sips
I asked about the names you gave to the cats (the ones i rescued just for you)
It seems you told me yesterday
i guess i wasn't listening; you repeat them anyway

It was Wednesday
you didn't walk me home
I walked slower than usual
in hopes that you might catch up
And i constantly looked over my shoulder
in hopes that you might appear
I tilted the bottle to my lips (the one you tilted to yours on Tuesday)
and took bigger gulps than usual
In hopes that plain water might wash away
the dissapointment and angst that caused me to sway

It is Thursday
and i don't know if you would have walked me home
I hope you are (very) unpleasantly surprised
when you find out that it's too late
because i'm gone
because you were the only one
who could save me from myself and everything else
because i'm gone
and you're never going to walk me home again

I've never been better
that's what i make myself believe
I laugh often
and the smile never leaves my face

But is it true?
Or is it because
i just never stopped to
take of the mask?

For now, i'll just believe that
i've
never
been
better

Unfinished drawings and
half written poems
remind me of us because
me and you
could never really complete
what was really meant to be beautiful

And today i stood in the rain(in the midst of a storm) and everything reminded me of you(the swaying trees, cold mist on my face, the way the rain looked like tiny dancing butterflies when it hit the ground), for i love everything about the rain, like i loved everything about you.

Sadness
a home more welcoming than my given one
Something you can't escape from,
neither would you want to

It engulfs you,
empowers, envelopes you
Kills you from the inside,
leaving a little more darkness
than the last time

But oh,
how i enjoy it
A home sweeter than the one given

It's the only home
i belong to

It's a quiet day
the skies are a beautiful grey
and im sat here wondering
why you never stayed