I want nothing more than to be left alone.

yet there's this child
Clinging to every
Step I take,
Reminding me of
All the spears
Our mother
Chucked at our eyelids.

I want nothing more than to be left alone.

yet there's a little rebel
Churning the bile
Inside my guts,
Screaming at me
About all the sharp edges
Of the road we walk on.

I want nothing more than to be left alone.

yet there's all this responsibility
Weighing me down,
And dragging me
Towards the edges
Of this broken glass path.

I want nothing more than to be left alone.

yet theres an old man
Whispering from the haze.
He tells me to turn back
From this destiny we share.

All that he wants is nothing more than for me to leave him alone.

I swear I-I never wanted to trap a butterfly

It's all my fault
shards of ceramic scattered in disarray
It's so surreal
scattered soil, cautious footsteps
an unsettling sight, distorted situation
The roots' exposed

I have no right to cry
After all
I broke your heart
didn't I?

I tried to get past the past, but
all I know is loss
all I do is grieve
All I hear is ambient noise
Ringing through my head
all I know is violence
all I do is parkour

And avoid the feeling

Checked out
found the exit
and chose
To grieve you today
Cause I can't bare the thought of losing you sometime down the road
When you hate me
And regret me
and we'll be screaming about all your wasted time

I can't be what you want me to be
And I know I'm not what you need
I don't know the girl in your head
But I know she's a concept I can't complete
And you can't handle the girl I am

I swear I never, I never wanted to trap a butterfly

Please, believe me
I swear it wasn't my intention
I didn't mean anything by it
I only wanted to escape
For a moment
See all the colors before I go blind
No worries, no responsibilities
Fill my lungs at the top of the world

Running through
crowded places
And you grab my hand
before
I
get
hit
by
speeding
cars

I don't understand
how did you get me laughing

It must've been the caffeine
For a moment
the geranium almost thrived

Now I'm too old to be
Drinking alone at noon
Pretty pink drinks
As pretty as Dianthus in spring  
Is that what you meant
When you were explaining your feelings?

Well, the bartender is adorable
But I can't bare to look at brown eyes full of pity
Like they can see right through me

I swear I-I never, I never wanted to trap a butterfly

So I leave
And
Speeding
cars
are
honking
loud and angry
almost hit me
Hilarious
If only
then I could
finally escape
and I can
finally feel...
Nevermind
It doesn't matter

Poison slips into the cracks and crevices
Under the skin
Down the throat
Into the lungs
Behind the ribs
Irreversible structural damage
nectar of dissolution
Dissolve the heart

You know who you are

I swear I never wanted to **** a butterfly

Venus flytrap

Nobody told me how much life would change once I graduated. The immense feelings of nostalgia, I barely managed to dissuade it. My heart, in all its complexities and difficulties, yearns for all kinds of things, scenarios, people - feelings. my heart yearns to feel. love keeps me warm, but lately, I've been awake with alarms, ringing like a maddened storm.

I think of the people I no longer talk to, my mind can come up with a few. Do people get over this? or is this a mist you cannot miss, haunting like a broken wrist, a cruel fate twist, that drives you searching for some kind of bliss?

I am undone. There used to be so much sun, but now it's hard even just to have fun. Is it cowardice to want to run? I imagine buying a gun and aiming it at my head, a joke so blunt.

I lay awake yet again. Dreams used to be so grand. But now it's all so bland.

I don't want to be bland...

the brevity of a singular breath,
one that is full of peace,
such a rare glimpse but
if you look at his face, at the right time,
you might just see him smile.

then, much like an old spruce cello,
descending in suspense,
that smile  -evaporates-, and the
quick "bliss" is no more.

oh how old and wise is this cello i play,
if only it was genuinely surprised by the
intensity of such
-hair raising horror-
it faces in its composure, daily.

"but it simply ain't",
as Bukowski would drunkenly say,
and his quivering cigarette would rightfully echo
through the halls of this unholy Cathedral.  

"put me the **** down already, Charles", it echoes.

"no,
i refuse
to let go of my
identity...

...why would i let go of all

-i feel-

is left?"

he (i) is either a man,
or on the road to understanding
what this even means really...

...maybe he's halfway there...

regardless, he now understands,
he must accept
"reasons" to smile won't come often,
and one is subject to the tug of war of life,
of society,
of women,
of his children,
of his forgetful mother,
of his vices,
his hair raising horrors,
the torment,
of his absent father.

to continue is to face those suspenseful

-crescendos-

of life, with
"a ******* smile on your face",
as Bukowski would say,

no matter
-what-
he's been through, or
-how-
-deeply-
he
-feels-

...

-melancholicreator

And oh,
the season of oblivion
ascends like a thief,
swift, silent,
deadly.

a breath in the vast emptiness,
a universe yawning wide
to devour every decibel
a void wide open
engulfing every sound.

And in my dreams, I swear,
your laughter was a revolution,
the earth halted its hustle,
and in that fleeting heartbeat,
there was laughter,
there was a ceasefire,
and we were its sanctuary.

And when I woke,
your absence was a canyon,
a shadow once more,
I fought for air,
fingers trembling for solidity.

I faced my shadows,
whispered, "Not now, not now,"
and cast them further into the abyss.

I anchored myself to this planet,
stood, knees quaking like fault lines.
I moved,
with a heart dense as a dying star,
and I stumbled into oblivion,
oblivion,
oblivion,

conceding that all we've amassed in the end,
signified
nothing after all.

What a melancholy night.
Thoughts so loud
They shock me with fright.
Whispers of aid,
Created by me.
Comfort alone,
By naked trees.
More touch I receive
From fields of green.
Wiping tears gently onto my sleeve.

For all I desire,
Is true company.

The other me stares at the true me from the corner of the room
she taunts me,
mocks me,
knowing that no matter where I go,
no matter what I do,
I will never rid of her.
The other me that was born in this world to replace the true me.
The other me that is sick, disgusting
and evil.
The other me that hates everyone around her,
and bares her teeth at anyone who gets close.

The other me that was born from the imaginations of others.
The other me is how they imagine me.
The other me, created from their bias, lies, and misperceptions.
Truth is of no matter here.
Only appearance, the way things look.

And the other me speaks and says,
You will walk this earth as nothing but a ghost,
a reflection of me.
You will try to fight me until your knuckles bleed
and your feet are sore.
But you know that you will never win.
You will die one day
and I will live forever.

We wake up to that alarming sound,
Pick up the cellphone

Scroll, Scroll, Scroll
Unread messages, missed calls

The darkness and lonesome of waking up,
Covered, Isolated,
but recharged from the constant stimulus
and daily overload of the senses.

Eyes feel weighted,
Stretching open as if rubber bands hold them shut.

The sound of TVs, Music, Cars,
Technology
Dressing well, presentation is key.

The anxiety of fulfilling plans, responding to emails, presenting your body to wherever it needs to be.  

Enslaved by the concept of time,
the necessary effort to find time for you,
but the feeling of losing, and the learned mentality that tells you to be lazy is to sit.  

In this quiet realm,
listening to ones own thoughts and wondering:
how many of these are a result of influence?  

Where am I?  
Where is me?

Everyday we wear this armor,
ready to battle,
but seeking
peace,
tranquility.

When was the last time you noticed the birds chirp?
The patterns of wind, as is winds up,
and as it winds down.  
As it quiets down enough to hear a pen drop,
and then it leaves you for a moment.
The cold as it triggers goosebumps and lifts the hair on your arms.

The annoyance of grass,
irritating your bare skin as you sit on it,
but you choose tolerance.  

And all of this provokes the realization,
of the constant loop you are in.  
To get here you have to escape.

The expectations of each one of your roles,
Son or Daughter, Man or Woman, Friend or Foe, to choose you or someone else,
Human.
The appoinments of life,
the need to insistingly value your time,
the sin of escaping your daily routine.

Days like these

A machine constantly in motion

To be the free bird that fights for survival,
where a meal is never guaranteed.
Or to be caged,
and fed by the social constructs,
and partake of what is given to you.  

Either way,
A loop is a loop.