Nights are getting shorter
Condemning me
The stars, the moon pity me
I don't mean to rhyme
But can you blame me for trying
Words betray me each time i mention you
Your name scares the ink in my pen
So I'm writing in blood
Now i will keep writing your name
Until i forget mine
Until all i see is red
It keeps flowing
It will never end
It's that feeling you get when you remember your dead pet
Sorry it sounds random
I'm tired of existing
Not everything has a meaning
When you think it does
You get hurt

No matter how hard I try
I cannot put what I really feel
down on paper.

You’d think that
something no one will ever read
(probably even me)
would allow free reign
to say what is really going on
inside my mind …

These thoughts and feelings,
my truths,
are there,
sometimes quiet, passive, dull.
Other times,
a maelstrom;
of anxiety,
of anger,
of regret,
of shame,
of loss.

And yet,
as I sit with my pen poised to write down my truths,
I am held back from writing what I need to say
and my words on the page
are empty,
meaningless,
passive,
dull.

And every day I vow to myself,
‘This will be the day I write down my truths.’

But not today -
maybe it will happen tomorrow,
or the next day,
or the next …

nostalgia feels like a rotting tooth

and it won't come out; no matter how many times i
wiggle and twist
and pull at it

or when my father tells me he's
going to tie a string around it and
slam the door

or my mother threatens to send me to the dentist
its too big of a problem for an ordinary person

im attached to the rot

she is my friend; i watched her grow
and she grew with me too
plus, ive never liked leaving things behind

and i remember-
how? can i remember her if she is nothing
how? will i be able to understand the present and survive the future
without the context of the past

the rot will spread and I will endure it

even so, it hurts

I still have your letter,
the one you wrote me for my birthday,
I keep it in my wallet along with your picture,
I will cherish them as long as I breathe my love.

Your presence is always
on the tip of my consciousness,
every part of every day
you're always on my mind,
you never seize to dissipate
from my foggy brain.

I love you,
I love you with every piece of my shattered heart,
lost and maybe never to be found.

Every night I write and delete,
but I hope that these lonely words
will somehow reach you,
perhaps weaving your dreamy visions
that you forget when you wake up.

I will write in vain,
and you will live hopefully,
joyful, oblivious to my sorrowed existence
amidst the crashing of day and night.

My precious,
you are the curing pain,
the never-ending desire
destined to never be fulfilled.

I howl
as I realize that insanity
is consuming my senses.
Hysterical laughing is looming
in my dark horizons
like a predator stalking a desperate prey.

I may know not my way,
I may get lost
between the brightness of the world
and the darkness of my rotten mind.

I may become the fool
that you pass by someday
and not notice.

I may fade into the shadows
and never to be seen again.

But it's all bearable
because I yearn for you, my cutie pie.
I'm still feeding the flame that you started,
I never let it die.

I sit and I watch it burn
in the emptiness of my purgatory.
Warmth costs pieces of me,
but it's all bearable and forgettable
when your smile flashes
on the murky surface of my memory,

and when the revenant sound of "I love you"
rattles my walking corpse
as I walk to my grave—
the grave I dug myself.

This is where I belong
without my love.

As the light fades from my soul,
I will be shedding tears of joy
as I watch
that you have found the one that you love.

Content by your radiant essence,
I will die
with a smile.

Mortality's cruel kiss
paints our skin
with hues of red.
And we are but leather
splitting in the darkness.
Until the wounds of time
extinguish our pulsate.
And then all that's left
is the haunting refrain
of what could never be.
Leaving behind a ghostly silhouette.
In sparkling dust where I once was.
Fading into nothingness, eternal.
And I am gone.
Letter on the boudoir.
Sealed in wax.
Rides off into the abendrot.
When the stars weep carmine.
And the porcelain shatters hail.
The light will blind us.
Oh yes, it will.
We all die a little.
We all fade in the middle.
We all change.
Sad to say:
"We already are performing our last scenes."

I guess now, the night we met is just a memory—
    a self-portrait without ****** features,
Only streaks where tears once ran, as the image
   is so blurry, but I still see myself
Running back to you… too easily.

It’s such a sad picture— an enigma, half-painted
   with eager thoughts quietly bleeding
Into the ink of doubt, each brushstroke pulling me
   further from the truth I never wanted to name
Now it just hangs… so awkwardly crooked

You left me walking alone in this gallery
           of only terrible memories.