Anger lashing out like waves hitting the shores within
Blinded by the fire, lacking where to begin
Breathlessly fighting for life yet holding my breath
Not believing that it's over,clinging to regret
Now that you're gone what's left is paper and pen
Without a difference between now and then
Except you being gone and never returning
And my mind burning and soul still yearning
Thoughts running east and then back to west
Searching for memories, a holy grail quest
Crumpling the papers as if they're responsible
For the beautiful poetry but finding no rhyme
Choosing to embrace loneliness and enjoy the crucible
Wishing by pushing back the clock I'd rewind time
Forgetting to draw back the curtains battling fright
Waking to horrors and creepers of the night
Trapped in the biting cold, hardly finding sleep
Wide eyed even after counting a million sheep
Searching for your fragrance in the sheets
Failing, like the recollection of how I you meets
Abandoning my bed and staggering in the darkness
Crushing over stuff searching for the switch
Wishing I still had the lamp you took with you by my bed
Or the phone I broke angered by your satirical tweet
It's like you were never here for your absent in my head
Hit as I turn on the blinding light by the current
Taking a **** and back to my PC to search for torrents
The movies I trashed when you left, songs I deleted
Now I treasure them as much as I had hated
Two three songs, I find memories lost in years
Only to start another war,battling back my tears
The scars are open and I bleed in love again
My passion for you is as fresh as the pain
Sadly I can't pelt the staring walls with my PC
She's an expensive and only source of my torturous peace
So my pillow takes her place and the potted flower
Funny I got strength for this but not will power
I need help but then will anyone understand?
Alone and accused on the boulevard of broken dreams
Jealous as the first ray of dawn kisses the sky
Onto the same staring walls I lean as I cry
Cursing where I've been, unsure of where
I'm going like lost fountains in a stream
I want to tell God to stop this crazy ride and I get off
And right there dizzy conjures my eyes and I sleep off

Knock on the door of my heart
       and i shall open it for you
do not be frighten by what  you'll see.
   I have been trying for too long,
  to let you know how much i love  you.
    But you never bothered looking  further beyond that fake smile on my face.
      That is filled with heart breaks
               and doubts,
for you never bothered to see beyond.

You only wanted a taste of my brown sugar skin, to kiss my lips that are made from all my sins, you never wanted to dance with me, only wanted to **** the sweetness straight from my veins, your tongue was quick, painted me a new horizon, made me feel like my brown skinned body was worth something to you, until you stopped, until I wasn't worth something to you, you've ****** the sweetness from me, my heart no longer beats like a drum, I lost myself inside of your watercolor eyes, I'm still trying to find my way out.

Her lids reconciled
Trying to taste the sweet tone of the wind
As it sang again for her
Running up across the dry meadows
She can smell the grass on her feet
The lake looks as though a blanket
Endlessly rolling tiny waves
"Where to?" Her heart wanted to ask
To the swinging ropes
She sat on the sturdy tire
She is colorless under the purple skies
She lost her balance like she did intend
Almost lying upside down
She felt the rush of blood go through her head
And found the trenches of goodbyes
Long kept in the clouds of twilight
Suddenly, tears in her eyes
Did you ever miss me?
Maybe a little
But not as much
Not like a firefly who lost her light
Maybe not a all


-Untitled, Margaret Austin Go

She loves the idea of love,
and I am the slave of it.  
She loves the idea of happiness,
and I am deprived of it.
She loves the idea of this and that,
and I am giving her this and that.

I wonder if she do love me, or clinging on false pretenses.

Water falls. Fast. Furious. Melancholic.
I could watch it all day.
My ill mind won't let go of me.
I watch the water fall.
Fall.
Fall.
Everything slowly spins around me, I **** it all in.
I breathe in, I breathe out.
No thoughts, no complexity, just the water.
Filling my whole scene. Filling all of me.
Fast spreading mental illness. Furious judging voice, telling me not to let go. Melancholic mind, capturing me, pulling me down.
Down.
Down.
Under the water.
Breathe in, breathe out.
My lungs are filling, water falls, down in my lungs.
Filling my whole scene, I draw my last breath.*

MJR. 16/01-15

There are times when writings is useless.
When the similes go on for too long like when the ocean merges with the sky and your eyes cannot the define the boundary between each crystalline blue and it is almost sublime because there is no end or no beginning and that is what I think of you. Infinite

There are times when art is not enough.
Like those times I cannot make the right mixture of the hue of that lovely tint in your eyes and, of course, not matter how many times I trace you in the canvas those lips like rose petals will never move and say "Me too."

There are times when music is lacking.
How you remind me of a melody each and every single time I see you and despite trying to trap the melody in these useless music sheets nothing comes but a few missing music notes that birds and composers have not and will not fathom.

But if I could write you down in paper,
I'd let the words scramble away once more because the free verse of your world intrigues me further more than finite verses on washed out paper.

If I could paint your essence,
Life would be a monochrome film,no more technicolour, no more blushing cheeks. I like you much more in this everlasting landscape where you can dye the world a million colours and still search forevermore

If I could play you in to melody,
The poor birds would be envious and the world would be a quiet place without composers able to eclipse that lovely song of yours. And yet, I love this cacophonous world in which everyone is deaf to you but I who can discern such a faint, dainty tune.

There are those times, you know?
When I know I'm not good enough but if I could, I still would not.

We didn't last forever;
the word attaches shackles
and chains that restrain,
and is better left unspoken--
never uttered, always locked
in the bars of my ribcage
where it restlessly remains
in utmost agony.

Then,
it stops.

The silence haunts me,
and my ribcage is imbalanced.
With laughter filled with tears,
and nonchalance juxtapose passion,
I whisper:

"Nothing lasts forever.
We fell apart like rose petals
amongst heavy storms."

The mask slips;
I avert my
red-rimmed eyes.

"But we could have--
oh darling,
we could have."

In that period of time he began pouring his trust into a half a pint cups of local beer and cheap cigarettes, local as well, which he could afford, who would have guessed?...
He used to gaze at girls with a curious and contemplative look that was also full with sadness and despair, instantly advocating for the holy mission and function of the prostitutes and the escort ladies and he already a abandoned the idea of having a pet except the turtle.
From time to time he use to scribble incomprehensible prose and poetry and couldn't find any condolence even in Hemingway or Cobain.
His only consolation was with the pen and watching the sunset off the sandy sea shore, for he could be sure that the same sun isn't dying buy only moving to a better place.
It seemed like he will leave after him numerous beginnings for stories and a lot of middles as well...
Sometimes, it would have seems to him that the first end he's going to write is going to be his own.
Leaving behind communities of characters that all their world is nothing but a few words, that seems like they are going to prosper and blossom but they were faded and gone like the sole of the candle's flame on top of a birthday cake, which was blown off while giggling her childhood laughter, leaving behind a delicate and curly thread of smoke, that is gone in a blink of an eye.
At the age of twenty-two he began writing his own eulogy, like this miserable old woman, preparing her own shrouds, but from that too he was finely despaired.