Was I really speaking with her, or was this all in my head. Because it seemed like a fever dream, that wouldn't end. Like I was awake and asleep at the same time, stuck inbetween. But I'd only wished it was just a dream.

The scientists say it could all be a hallucination, but how real a hallucination can be.
*Real enough to hurt you.

Pink converse,
white tights,
And she's just hanging there.

I don't dare disturb her,
because somehow I knew
She wasn't real.

(My Mind Questions It)

So I peek...
Peek under the stall door,
to see nothing in it's place.

A tile floor.
Something thick,
it's covering every inch.
But, it is naked to my eyes.

The air is heavy.
Breathing in dense fog
and nothing comes out.

Who was she,
and why would my Hallucination be her death?
In suicide.

cankerous open mouths.
dead breath like exhaust.
this is your world,
you who would not have it.
pockmarked by age
and pockmarked by plague
and a palpitating heart.
repeating pleasure as if it were a litany.
a cowl to wrap yourself in
and create a new identity.
and it's the weight of your heart
that matters
no matter how small.
and with pooling abscesses
and with enough drained blood
you could fill a new world.

I was standing by the window,
Half-daydreaming, staring blind
Hearing winter's blustery wind blow,
Playing games inside my mind.

It had been a normal evening,
Nothing untoward occurred
Til I saw somebody leaving,
Walking by without a word.

She was dressed in summer clothing,
Nothing more than rags of grey
As the bitter darkness rode in
I could feel her deep dismay.

She looked right into my kitchen
With such deep brown staring eyes
Like she'd stepped out from some fiction
From which mystic creatures rise.

And as I looked even harder
I saw right back through her head
Wondered where this strange departer
Had a home, a life, a bed.

As I watched her disappearing,
Fading right before my gaze
I realised that her appearing
Had been but fantastic haze.

For the little non-existent
Who looked deep, with languid stare
Was in fact my mind's insistence
On creative twilight air.

The sky,
A blood-like sunset
The fjord,
An endless, black chasm
Fire licked the place
All hell on Earth.
They left him behind,
Alone.
On the edge of madness,
The fear consumed him
Creating distorted images of reality.
Trapped in this swirling world of violent colours
A scream out of nowhere,
Voices, voices clawed at his mind
Desperate to be freed from this cacophony.
The light faded,
Hope went with it,
Until he submitted
To his delusional world.

Beneath the glass is empty. Hollow. Black.
Only a dismal blanket of refracted light falls sliding across, skimming slick atop.
Stitched heaps of skin pulled taught,
to hide what lies beneath
but lend to serve fresh, bloodied and raw
the false promises of hope and ill asylum.
Beneath the glass, draws fate near.
Cast sight towards the stitches and please try not to listen.
Weary for beneath the glass is where time holds  absolute,
stagnant, and still
Time and the glass, for what it can appear;
hold each others' truths in the remaining fragments of our reality as they crumble of will.
For if the glass shatters, cold veins and warm hands are all we have left
to hold dear.

You’re handed a pipe
it looks fine.
You’re told to relax.
You smile, too high to do anything but.
You flick the lighter, inhale and try to prepare
you can’t.

You’re moving
circling over some horizon that resembles the mashed combination of green hills at sunset
and the giant that lays across them has taken the only home base you could reach.

You’re twitching
you’re still.
You’re warm,
you’re not.
You’re cold,
you’re not.
You’re worried you are talking to the streetlamp through a window
you are.

You’ve lost all concept of time
but you’re pretty sure you’ve kept the same reality.
You’ve always breathed like Darth Vader.
You remember your first kiss
the dragon wouldn’t stop breathing fire and it, she, just felt too scaley,
thank god the pancakes were delicious.

You look at your friend and he is smiling,
but too wide.
His mouth grows to encompass his head, his body, the whole room.
His cat is rolling on his tongue.
lolling from side to side
never breaking eye contact.
You see the “meow” leak from the small hole in the back of a shrinking throat
and enter the cat’s ears before it shrieks and the sound finally hits you.

You hear “meow, meow, meow” on a laugh track that’s too loud
and it sounds like ears have hit the bass
because there are butterfly wings beating through your skull.
but the flutter murmurs to the back of your throat and the wings become whisps as they escape through your eyes.

You close your friend’s mouth and ask how long it’s been.
“Meow.”
Not long enough.

“Why, you think you’re coming down?”

“I don’t know man, but I hate your ******* cat.”

“Of course you do.”

It appears as though shadows are not of concern,
To they who shed light upon every return.

I am certain the sun cannot fathom night falling,
And really, why would he care?
For the curtain that's calling long after you're done,
To be gone, I don't believe is unfair.

It appears as though shadows are not of concern,
To they who shed light upon every return.