pain bespeaks pain okay
   you're entitled to go sadmasc when life has you itching faking like a ***** if you must say so
think i hear rats squeaking outside but I'm too scared to look my eyes have been draggled
        wounds bleed endless in my mind all day like a backdrop stream that never runs out I'm used to it get a grip it's okay
I use to dream of a lover and a dream we could embody an army,
   A million different souls that loved in unison and twitched together in one room at night
But what's your issue sir that lover'd say to me; our sibilance is all we really have in common anyway
The world around is crazy we're all born soft, get crushed and numb or get in other people's way
That's the way I've learnt, I see selfishness unfold from people who always startout with the best intentions.

The wolrd is so forver clear when everyone remains strangers,
Let the days drag on-- I'm comfortable
inhaling and exhaling the air from the same room every night
Like cigarette smoke, so relaxing so that I ignore the soft nipping peeling my lungs like a cruel diseased kiss, clawing for blood and making ribbons out of my skin.

Today is a first draft day
With no re-write on its way
I’m at the messy stage
the unstructured phase
with a faint promise of better
or maybe just more neatly arranged.

I’m a first draft
and on days like today
I feel it.

I always dreamt of this life
a life where I could be the woman I wanted to be
a life full of happiness and laughter
a life that is too good to be true
but still, I feel incomplete
there is a missing puzzle piece
so the question is, where do I find that missing piece?

I often imagine that the moon, the owls and the darkness of the night might be my closest friends, they are my trusted companions through the few highs and the many lows. They comfort me when it's 3am and the rest of the world seems like they are sleeping soundly.

They’ve been witness to my tears and plees for this to all stop and comforted me when the four walls of this bedroom felt like a cage. The moon seems so distant yet its warmth kisses my cheek. Someday I might be able to force my body to ignore the protection of the darkness and live in the light of the sun. But I am manufactured to die slowly to the darkness and this body is like an incomplete metaphor for the disease that lives in my head without paying rent eating up all the light.

I hunger for time—
more of which I don't have,
Thirst for love;
but not all would quench it,
Seek a purpose
that isn't labelled at first sight,
Dream of greatest—
in the confines of being simple,
Sin in the several;
seven times a day- consciously

I've done it all-
but in an all still not complete,
I'm incomplete.

hey brain, take this brush
and paint by yourself
these hands of mine are rough and calloused
unable to lift and bend my cracking joints
paint your thoughts by yourself
because my arms are limp and weak
and shatter when touched

i've always wondered why you never thought of leaving
voluntarily staying in my withering home
so kindly and destructive
when you paint on my walls
forgetting that lead settles in the pigments
in the lines that drip from excess

though each stroke pains me the longer you create
i'll always compliment you
with a voice tone-deaf and ugly
thankfully, i feel pretty when you do
i feel pretty when i become your muse
and feel a little less incomplete.

A poem half made
is like bread still dough
like a bed unmade
like half a mo
A poem half done
is like a shade of day
with half the sun
A kiss, an inch away
A poem undone
Is a four moon phase
a count to one
a ‘mil’ out of place
A poem half finished
is like a tin of spinach
still unopened
and an expired usage
A poem not a