Happiness isn’t
pulling a slot machine
with the woman you have...

Being pulled
into the slot of
and
by the woman you can’t have

Is where happiness
away from the machine...
lies

Starts with a burst of pure light
Flares up and away like a laugh
Coalesce into one, a sphere perfectly rounded
Essence of one captured in crystal form
I watch mine flicker, a candle in an open window
Darker like the clouds hiding the sun
Pray to the world I’ll flare up again or
I’ll slowly be consumed by my sins

Let me tell you once more about the first 24,
The lackadaisical blossom of a devilish spore,
The immemorial black of hearts lacklustre and cold,
The sensual grimace of an ordinary soul,
The last ember of coal within a beauty unknown,
The voluptuous shape of effeminate stone,
The incantation of the sun giving birth to the dawn,
An insomniac’s battle against the army of the morn,  
The poetic holocaust of a mind tortured and torn,
The endogenous torment of thoughts when a man is alone,
The sorrow of kings after ascending the throne,
The desolation of spirits failing to protect their own,
The pessimism of those afraid of leaving their zone,
The transparent mist in the eyes of those who intellectually mourn,
A simple metaphor for you to interpret and me to know,
All that and more, simply the first 24.

Its the deepest secret i hold, it is the key to my soul,
It is my rise and my fall, the darkest story ever told,
Add a beautiful 3 and my spirit is whole.
A divine metaphor.
Under a tree of sycamore,
A new story began called the first 24.

The accumulation of all the hate that we love to condone,
But also the strength we unearth when scares galore,
The falsely euphoric solitude of those who do not implore,
A dementia that is cause by the degradation of truth,
The delusion of humans, trying to hold on to their youth,
The illusion of art when sanity is loose,
The ambitions of an addicts fighting, escaping abuse,
It’s the elixir of life for those who denied unethical truce,
Its the umbilical cord by which mental growth is produced,
It’s the force within those who fight without an excuse,  
Its fluorescence of essence, its the efflorescence of spruce,
The greed of adolescence, asphyxiating your roots.

To be  guilty
Is to be ill received
To struggle within
Is that of its own effort in futility

For just as a new day dawns
Illuminates the coming of day
So is the begging of the coming dissolution
So is the inevitable distaste

Like the man at the edge of street
Sitting in the glow of artificial light
However hollowed a reality received
The weight pressed within one’s mind

It was in this worldly injustice
Founded upon the breaking of ones will
Yet in this subjective sense it seemingly shatters
While the rest remains ever still

Created in a storm,
The red most vivid,
The colour of love
Representing the deepest of pain,
The rapids in your mind,
None as beautiful as those of the ocean,
Getting deeper and deeper
Beyond the basic grit of the past,
Pulling times of discontent from every fabric of the memory,
Until you snap! like a simple branch
Silver the only glimmer in the dark
Colliding with the paleness of your skin,
Stained now by not only blothes of that colour of love but also those of hurt, fear and never ending pain.

The thing is,

my nightmares aren't about huge spiders,

or falling off the top of really tall buildings.

They aren't about the monsters in the closet,

or the monsters in my head.

They aren't about ghosts,

or creepy clowns.

My nightmares are about you.
The way you killed me with your eyes.
I've never been the same.

The way you stabbed me in the back when I wasn't looking.
Red eyes,
love made me blind.
The way your words trapped, strangled, and suffocated me.

Sweet dreams.