the grip I must feel to have the wheel
to truly have it and not let it slip through the sweat and tears

tighter than where the sky meets the grass, tighter than any connection you've ever had

they shake and want to surrender any day now
but everything's so precious

I had to say goodbye to a friend because she was too much like me, too much like the thoughts that could **** me

an illness that mocks me in my sleep,
repeatedly choosing for me

faking a sense of control that only allows me to pretend
I'm not too grown up for this

the cruelties don't go over my head
they swoop and land

cutting me in deeper
drowning me in my own tears

lifting me up and drifting me away

and yet I remain to wander

Dear Generation X,
Please take a step or fifteen back,
if that is what it takes to make you see
that some of you are thoroughly misjudging me.

Dear Generation X,
Please stop sh-tting on me when you
see me in a low-paid job because you
think that I'm uneducated, when in fact I'm
earning my own money to help fund my education.

Dear Generation X,
Please don't patronise me every
time I raise my voice with an opinion
of my own, prepared to eloquently argue
up against others more than twice my age, restraining my
own temper so that I remain polite, whilst condescendingly
you reply with "you're a little brat" who should "f-ck off and find her manners."

Dear Generation X,
Please refrain from moaning about
how the youth of today's generation
never have anything intelligent to say
when you place gags in our mouths, or that we're all too thick-skulled
and should go back to school, whilst simultaneously shouting at
us all to "get a job" and "buy a house", when many of us are drowning
in student loans, granted for gaining the knowledge needed to bag a "decent job."

Dear Generation X,
Stop trapping me.

Wake up.

Tie your hair back as a splash of cold water hits to awake another day.

Stomach aches, throat sore, reminds you of the night before. It is a daily occurrence now, like brushing your teeth, or splashing your newly awoken face.

Habitual and centered. A routine, no longer needed to be remembered.

Wake up.

Hold your hair back. Purge. Splash water on your face.

After all, it is your daily occurrence.

I lit a lamp
an awareness
In absence of technology
Is lamp is the
owner of the light..

i.

at the edge of a dark sky,
where the framed door
lies closed and the
rain’s smooth octaves
gather the last lonesome
heart-beat of the summer in
its mists that tap the door,

ii.

the grey air,
cloud-drawn, straps
its satchel to its back
its stones the silvers
of a silent moon,

iii.

its stones sombre and smoky,
the dead of night,
a crimson king
a blossoming flower,

iv.

where the night’s slated
roof listens to the rains
urgent rushings, silver
and shaded like a storm,

words of the air
sinking back like the
desolate waves that hush
the sands as they drown
their sorrows in baskets
conjured out of the breath
of the grey-eyed night.

v.

you kiss me and i start to
swoon, i swoon like a garden
rose that climbed once to
the sky, a garden overgrown  
with the quiet of apple-coloured
leaves, the summer with its vines,
its leaves the bright rain drops,
its leaves the visions of the air.

My best friend was fiction. The ocean where I lived was nothing but an enormous tank capable of sustaining the plastic we created in our own image. On odd days the electric lampshade sun would malfunction and the skin of tourists would turn moldy grey from calcium deficiency or rather a will not to see the fabricated sky for what it was: a cardboard cutout created with the sole intention of comfort.
My number in school was always 33
whether it was outside playing sports or being the 33rd person in line at the cafeteria or hanging that number on the lapel of my shirt like a cross at the top of a hill in a Roman crucifying.
For this my life revolved around that number.
33 reasons to go outside and witness the cruelty
33 socks missing their twin at the bottom of a washing machine
33 ideal mates that always say the wrong thing before the meeting takes place
33 witches hanging at the bottom of a lake for swimming instead of sinking
my favorite fiction is the one that tries so hard to hide under the bed
the one that lies on the front porch step of that man accused of robbery in his 20’s
the one that believes when it’s told the earth is melting
that it will just goop up at the bottom of the devil’s dinner plate

So many times, did death look me in the eyes,
I've stood amidst the dark and the unborn,
Wailing, constantly fading,

Yet the lonely night, shines across the moon
And then from ashes, we rise, as if we've just begun,
Though this weighs differently,

Yet I've endured the worst,
The solitude of it all,
I've had the best, and the worst.

Yet the light shines upon my soul,
Signaling the beginning of a new great war,

Oh mystified darkness, hear me roar,
Their cries, I take upon my shoulders,
And to you, I raise an empty glass,

Then whisper to you...
I am the end. Are you yet to feel remorse?