In between the lines
That is where you should read
Because it is in those spare spaces
Where you create your own meaning

To truly write
and transform what was once
sheer excrement
into a jewel
that others treasure
making so many wonder.

How I desire to achieve such.

i'm staring out the window,
fingers clutched to a cigarette.
8 minutes before sunrise,
i'm watching the sky rain.

I started smoking cigarettes again

Something about having another thing burning between my fingers

Besides your hands

Makes me dismiss the feeling that lingers 
when I think of you

Since I can’t have your taste in my mouth

Menthol will have to do

I am addicted 

Isn't this sounding familar?
You **** me inside starting with my lungs

Like the small nicotine sticks do with every inhale

I would much rather your slender fingers in my hand

But for $10 a pack they last around a lot longer than you do 

No matter how much you rot me from the inside out

A piece of me will always be yours

Always

tears come down my face.
not a usual thing for a person like me,
born pained, and living numb.
all i want is to run from all that i am,
and all i ask is that will you come with me?

but my fear is that, you will say no. like
everyone else. no one ever stayed,
and
i got a feeling that I, myself,
want to leave this body of mine.

what you said is that we are the same,
dying inside, smiling outside.
no one will ever know the difference between us,
but i do, i really do.
i would give all my veins
and bleed for you,
but you wouldn't take a scratch for me.

the dream of mine to go away with you
will remian mine, and never shared with you.

This game we are
playing tires me out.
You decided to call it 'hide and seek';
we are the players - you and I, and all of them.
But I question this little game of ours,
everybody's hiding.
Nobody
is seeking.

Through the dark,
I let my eyes adjust.
I did my best
to stay out of sight.
Behind the curtains, below
the cabinets, and until now
hidden in these words.

We remain unseen.
We remain hidden.
No one wanted to be
found.

I am falling in love
not into him, nor with anyone else.

But with how he can hide
your meanings
in a couple of left-aligned words.

But with his thoughts, his ideas
written on paper
in his awful hand-writing.

But with the songs he made me listen to,
they didn’t hurt my ears,
something else was hurt.

But with how he say my name,
like it’s his.
(Why does he do that? How?)

And to all his art,
especially the written ones.
His words can open doors to worlds
I didn’t know existed.

But I am not in love. I may be
falling for him.

I write on anything.
It's an obsession.
I look around and I dig deep into my thoughts.
I write and pour my thoughts on cheap, crumpled pieces of paper.
Then throw it away.
Along with my past.

m.d.

That’s the complication of staying up at these early hours of the morning.
These early hours are when your mind is most naked, when your heart is bare, and your body numb. You hear the rain pouring down, and you look outside your window, and stare at the droplets falling, you think about what It must feel like to drown in the inescapable water, it quenches your thirst yes, but at some point you would have enough of the water coming down on you. There’s a point where the water fills your intestines, it soaks every part of you until your practically drowning. But then the rain starts to fade, and all you hear are the drops falling from the roof onto the cement. You watch slowly in those milliseconds from the time the drop falls to the cement, and the cement consuming the drop, until it’s practically non - existent. And in a short amount time, the whole sound of rain becomes non - existent to a point where you forget that it rained, and the only evidence left is the dark, grey sky above, that within time will fade as well.

m.d.