I want to wake up
to the richness of your voice.
A voice that looks like floral petals,
smells like fresh rain,
and sounds like the warmth of a
crackling fire.
Your words are light
yet fill the room
so that it swells like your chest
when you breathe.
And once our eyes
lose their fatigue,
we'd open up our rib cages.
and pass secrets like warm bread
while giggling under the blanket
where no one can see us.
We wouldn't need to go
and look at the night sky
because the Christmas lights
would be the stars
and you would be my moon,
shining in the darkness.
I never want to leave your arms.

The weather's getting warmer
there's still static in your snowy eyes
and moonlight waxing pale shines
               a searchlight
          through this night's
humming summer city haunts
frames your face and splashes mine
with the truth that lies behind
a well-intentioned whitewash lie
                         that we care where we're going,
                         that we know what we're doing
                       and daily life don't scare us blind.

The Warden's got his dogs out,
our feet barely touch the ground.
And we're not looking back until
we hear no chasing sounds
               so sound the fox horn
and catch us napping if you can.
'Cuz we're just killing days,
running all night and foiling plans.

The silver night was spilling
quiet rainstorms on your dark red hair
and my resolve was waning there
               against those
             smiles we wrote
in that crumbling concrete hour.
'Cuz we'd never been that close
to divorcing deceased ghosts
and coming clean from mud-caked boasts
                          that our chains never rattled,
                          that we never felt saddled
                        beneath our heavy, self-sewn cloaks.

The Warden's got his dogs out,
our feet barely touch the ground.
We're never looking back again,
and we won't make a sound
               so sound the fox horn
and catch us napping if you can.
'Cuz we're just killing days,
running all night and foiling plans.

Tunneled under the walls now
it's high time we put some ground
between us and our yesterdays
that howl like baying hounds.
               We'll pound the pavement
and catch a few winks where we can.
And we'll be living days
and sleeping nights and making plans.

your hair
reminds me
of a storm
in Ireland

you face
reminds me
of Botticelli's
Venus

Your eyes
remind me
of unsolved
mysteries

Your lips
remind me
of stolen
kisses

Your smile
reminds me
I am still
alive

~mce

A king without kingdom, is the one who dwells in his own world
Physically here, psychologically in another plane, he never cares about this land's cult
The only thing he cares, are his dreams and fantasies
Maybe that is why he is called a king, in its own means

A king without kingdom, can't be suppressed or oppressed
For he, doesn't have a land, that can be snatched to make him depressed
He is the true owner of his will, a hero
Who can't be made, to exist with Aryabhatta's zero

The king without kingdom, is not a gardener without flowers
He is that farmer, who always welcome the showers
The one who will join him, will also become a king
Like him, the one, A King Without Kingdom


|AB|

Today I searched:
how to make the pain stop,
how to breathe again,
how to not drown in tears,
how to make it go away.

Their answer:
you.

for those that may not be aware
I suffer from a disease that doesn't visibly appear
I suffer from a disease known as epilepsy
it's my burden, and I'm not writing this for sympathy

one question that always is asked and repeated
what does it feel like when a seizure occurs? can you beat it?
I think I'll sum this sensation up the best way I can
so please forgive me if this poem is bland

What's the most exhausting thing you've ever done?
whether that be marathon ***, or running in the blazing sun?
take that sensation and make it twenty times worse
now there's the physical aftereffects in this very verse

Now for the mental feeling of solid lucidity,
a full but empty feeling that can't really be explained
only experienced really, and that doesn't sound sane
it's like being drunk yet sober, high but haven't smoked
but all the while, your brainstem is being choked

You know, I've realized it's impossible to describe a seizure completely offhand,
but count yourself lucky if you aren't prone to them,
even with this burden, I'll make my life grand

DEPRESSION IS REAL.
depression is not being sad. depression is gray-tinted glasses that affect how you see the world, depression turns your emotions from stone to glass, you never knew the meaning of "emotionally unstable" until someone drops you half of a foot and you shatter. until someone cancels on you and somehow you find yourself sobbing in your room because the demons in your head tell you that nobody ******* cares about you, nobody ******* cares about you, nobody ******* cares about you.
depression is real. i can feel it in my chest and on my eyelids and in my head and i can even feel it's iron death grip on my throat.
some days i swore to God there was a four-ton elephant sitting pretty on my chest, but i was the only one who could see it. some days there were five-pound weights hanging from my eyelids and the only way to keep myself awake was to pump myself so full of caffeine that my hands shook while my eyes were still tired, making me exhausted and anxious and hyperactive all at once. some days it took hold of my head, squeezing my eyes so that my reflection was warped and twisted and grotesque, whispering into my ears that i needed to eat less. you need to eat less. some days it attacked my heart. i can not describe the sensation better than to say that some days it felt like my aortas were being beaten by dull wooden stakes or like my blood had been replaced with icewater.
you're sitting in class enjoying a captivating psychology lecture when that thought pops in your head: "why are you even alive?" and your blood freezes, your ribs tighten, and something grabs hold of your windpipe so that all you can do to not say "i want to die" when the teacher calls on you is shake your head and say "i don't know."
you're sitting in math class and you're supposed to be learning about integrals but all you can think about is everyone's reactions if you didn't wake up the next day; you're sick but all you notice is that no one noticed you were gone. maybe no one would notice if you were gone.

one year, food was all that could make me feel happy; i found hope in the dopamine rush from the sugary calories; i rejoiced at the satisfactory feeling i got from devouring half of a pan of brownies.
the next year, yes, i know i have always loved dark chocolate but today i just can't seem to taste it. or anything for that matter.
the only thing i could get myself to ingest were liquids that would take my memories away for a while. i had no problem pouring cheap caramel apple ***** down my throat but could not get myself to pick up a golden delicious and bite into it because i knew i wouldn't have be able to finish it anyway.

depression is real. depression is a ****** up monster that leaves no part of you untouched and can steal the very essence of who you are if you let it. depression can ******* rip you apart. someone will tell you that they love you and all you will be able to say in return is "no you don't."
depression takes away who you are. because you haven't always cried every day, you haven't always been unable to eat, you used to be able to stomach an "i love you" and you used to smile when you saw your little sister.
this is not you, this is depression, depression is real. you are not pretending, you are not 'not trying', you are not 'broken'; honey all you have are some unbalanced chemicals in your brain. but we're going to try as hard as we can to make them go back to normal. i know you're in there.

depression is real. but so are you.

Your ebony hair is the night personified,
Or maybe it's all just in my mind,
But I can't forget how graceful you seem in stride,
Like an angel made of clouds caught in mid-glide,
Yes, I do mean to say that you are heavenly,
And my heart's door awaits your entrance readily,
I hear there is a certain kind of sadness to be found in beauty,
But your eyes seem unaware of this apparent reality,
I'm caught in a certain wrongness, something feels amiss,
And only then do I realize just how badly I'd like a kiss.

The enigma of space is reflected in your eyes,
And Beauty dares not reveal to you it's true guise,
Your ruby lips shame the rose of dawn,
And your beauty is only rivaled, by the coming of the morn,
Your smooth flesh is testament to God's craftsmanship,
And your lips, oh, I could write an ode on just those lips,
There is a way, you pluck at my deepest heartstrings,
Revealing who I really am, amongst other things,
I crave your presence and dread your departure,
And with your allure, comes my heart's rapture,
What more can I do, to emboldened my claim,
When in your presence, my heart seemingly grows lame,
I leave you now, with a memory of bliss:
The genesis of our meeting, and the shadow of a kiss.