We head for icebergs,
Faster than we know,
We cherish our unsinkability.

But we don't know what lies on the dark sea's lip,
Often sailing with confidence,
Yet, without a search light.

Who rises the sun,
What man drags forth light?
I know not the knight,
Valiant to bring forth the sunrise.
Still, valor to his efforts,
For life is better in the light.

The day she committed suicide,
it was her twentieth birthday.
She was always shy,
rarely met with people,
seldom heard was her voice.

She loved to spend time alone,
talked and laughed at times,
then fell into silence for days—
until one day,
she fell silent forever.

Fighting mental illness is a little difficult,
but winning this battle is not impossible.
In memory of her, let us be a guiding light,
promote compassion and understanding.

In our hearts, a symphony of empathy thrives,
let us ensure that hope survives.
We can foster a world that’s kind and just,
where battling mental illness—
we rise, we trust.

Under the current currents
This maelstrom pulls to the bottom
Drown out all sound and colors as they bleed
Into the monochromatic release
The dark can see in the very light you hold
Bioluminescent under the black lit citadels
Reveal secrets in neon tell-tale epitaphs
Tomes scrolling our invocations into life.

What is done in the black dark soon comes to light
Monsters all come alive,  
Devour love and insight your fright,
But it’s not, how you remember these
Torrid torrential memories
Raining down like meteors crashing upon the sea
Fires burning but you’re caught in a freeze
So before it burns away, melting everything down to a stave
I want it all, one last confession, and count your blessings,
The tide will erase. Start on a new unaltered page.

Where do good angels
Go to burn their wings?
Under the current of your currents
Coalesce into a verse
Tethered as one as the song carries on
Bite the bullet, and know for certain
What’s done in the dark comes to light
And you shine so bright under the blackest
Through torrid torrential memories,
The tide will erase, start on a new unaltered page
What would you write if the right could see
Through your heart and past misery,
Could the trauma efface, the love panned across the face
If you truly sat upon the graves,
Monsters dancing moribund across your brain
Burn your wings, and coalesce

I want to shine in your darkest.

Where do you find the light
When they have snuffed the flame out of you
I look to others
But the flame is gone in them too
Nobody knows warmth anymore
Where is the light
Is it truly gone

I remember when the sun shone on us all
Perhaps
We are learning to exist in the dark

And have you ever heard how poppies smell?
They are so huge, so wild, so ruby-colored!
They're summer harbingers, the lights of fields!
They are so thrilling, brave and so uncovered!

These poppies easily can put you to the sleep
Or even **** you with no difficult at all!
They're real flashes, doping! They're taboo!
They're passion, craziness and sin in whole!

And have you ever heard how poppies smell?
They are as red as real blood itself!
No? You haven't heard it? Oh, it's sad. You know,
That's how heartfelt and true love just smells.

the song of birds measures the air
the buds of the future are fragile
what a fate - not a rhyme:
the eyelids are filled with light

Do not tread here,
Not on this land.
These grasses hide graves,
This dirt is a death-land.
If you must walk this desolate space,
Step carefully, travel light.
If you're not nimble,
This journey may be your last.
Adding another body,
To this grim grass.

Oh the Innocence  
That laugh, that wild howling in the throat of youth,
Unseen fingers scramble for the last thread of light  
Here, the angels are naked,  
no wings to catch their fall.  
The river splits,  
splashes,  
and chaos is born  
from the lips of the unholy, the pure.  

There be our Divinity  
slips beneath the skin like rust on gold
a fractured god,  
broken in pieces,  
spilled across the morning,  
the moon forgets its name.  
Prophecies?  
Laughing in the dust,  
twisted and torn,  
a thousand whispers claw at the sky  
but none reach.  

Imagination is the distant echo—  
a door slammed shut by a thousand hands,  
and what vision is left?  
A trembling shadow.  
What light?  
What reflection?  
It’s nothing but a crack in the glass,  
and through it, you see everything and nothing  
all at once.  

Oh but thou Morality  
it’s a rotten fruit in the mouth of the blind,  
an oath spat on the ground  
before it crumbles to dust.  
What holds us here?  
Nothing but the gnashing teeth of the broken,  
screaming freedom that never comes,  
but always dances on the edge of our minds  
like a mad bird  
torn from the sky,  
its wings flapping in the void.  

Oppression is the song they sing,  
but we?  
We are the ghosts who scream in the dark,  
rising,  
rising,  
again and again.  
Flesh torn and reborn.  
A shout in the streets—  
but where is the end of the road?  
No path but the storm’s eye,  
no sky but the bleeding horizon.  

Shall he call it Mysticism?  
A thousand tongues, a thousand eyes—  
but no one looks.  
The trees scream their roots into the soil,  
but who hears?  
Who listens?  
A leaf flutters in the wind,  
and the world spins—  
twisted—  
a thousand faces in a mirror that is shattered  
but still reflects
what?  
What?  
What do you see with blinded eyes !  

Where doth Nature find its whole,  
A scream of fire in the rain.  
Flesh in the dirt,  
bones wrapped in moss.  
Everything turns,  
and everything falls.  
Chaos is the language,  
and we are the words scattered  
across a broken page.  
No order, no truth,  
only the flood of thoughts  
rushing to drown themselves