Haunted by
the ghost
of my own self
telling me
I don't deserve to live.

Come with me. Come. I'm waiting for you.

a pale & gloomy day,
laced in loneliness.
motivation..... lacking.
inspiration..... slacking.
as sad as the clouds,
raining down on my parade.

She was a flower,
And he was her sunlight.

She needed him,
More than anyone else did.

Without her sunlight,
The sunlight she needed, she would die.

Yet too much love from him,
Could make her heart turn dry.

Am I that hard to love?

I have nothing left for this dreadful world
but an empty shell
that wishes for its self-destruction to come
as soon as it's possible
like someone to step over them &
crack it up in tiny little pieces that could never be put together again.
There's nothing left of me to give & give in
to someone else,
but this overwhelming emptiness
that destroy all my inner voices &
that shuts them up for all eternity.
I'm sorry you could never hear them again,
but i'm also pleased that
you'll never have to listen to
these destructive thoughts
any minute longer.

a shadow blue beam of dust
encases me;
they weave through me,
embroidering
gloomy brocades of
steel dullness.

Ghosts of the day
give way
to the gloom
between street lights
where shadows move
in the sourness of solitude
when little changes
except time, tides
and dreams
with a variety of themes.

Just what was love to you, sweet darling of nothing but bitter
what were its intentions
what reason was it there for
what wonders did it long to see
How many desserts did it wander
how many oceans did it swim
how many infernos did it dare enter
Darling, just what is love to you?
Was it as visible as your crystal-clear mirror
or was it as hidden as the flaws you tried to bury six feet under
while she was enveloped well in layers and layers of your pockets
in her gravestone, written, “Suffocated”.
Darling, just what is love to you?
Was it as long-lasting as the stains you’ve left in every room inside her house
or was it as impatient as those almost-adventures to deep seas, warm sunsets, and high mountains
she was just as ready and as packed as you were but you were already-distant when she went out the door.
Darling, just what is love to you?
Was it as understanding as the sea is to the shore
or was it as frustrating as a thread through the tiniest needle’s eye
you covered her in you salt-water and embroidered on her skin as if it was paper.
Darling, just what is love to you?
The truth is, darling; love to you was no one and nothing other than yourself.
That was all you ever cared for.
That was all you ever sheltered.
That was all you ever loved.
You were the desserts she wandered,
you were the oceans she swam and
you were the infernos she burnt in.
Darling, which was love?
Love to her was the mistaken-beauty in you
and you were so twisted in your paths to even
see how astonished she was that
one day her heart died loving yours.
You slapped heavens out of her and
ripped her silken being
whilst love for her was you.
Darling, you aren't much of it, are you?