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s v e n 5d
I want all of you
And it's all true
I want you,
I just want to love you.
Give me your love
And I will cherish
All of our memories
I don't want to forget
About you.
So just give me all
Of you
And love me too.
He inspires me to write again..
there are some days that I cannot fathom
the anguish another individual must feel
to openly hurt the ones he loves for attention
when we sit here (cowards)
denying our own reality to make ourselves
feel better lying down next to strangers
fading away my heartbeat ceases
until i can comprehend something other than
mistakes painted in opposition to the universe
or how i miss your touch most days
feathering blushing hues fading fast
in the sunlight these are the days
i miss you most when the memories i hold dear
pigment themselves vivid in my pastel routine
my easel is no longer in a home
my art is no longer stagnant on a wall
it is
walking
(talking)
breathing
crying right in front of me
walking away from me
in the distance now
those days i do not understand us
or what we have become
i reflect on how seasons transition flawlessly
without any form of communication
other than knowing of the passage of time
and that right now is time for change
(it is time)
what have you been through they ask
after read my poem

because the words able to
opened up their wounds
just like the first time

and they're wonder
if I have been through the same thing too.
we shares same pain
All the books I read are sealed
the words are pretty
and not empty
so don't talk to me unless
you do expensive pain
money
What has changed.
Surely it must be plain to see.
Rooting oneself in anything but this moment.
Is one way to certainly spell disappointment.
Too many days spent autographing pages.
Like a name makes the man.
Or perhaps.
So that the past can only condemn its owner.
Destined to be a heretic of life itself.
A hidden transgression cant hurt those it does not reach.
Then why is it chained through the bone.
Chasing daylight like the moon.
Slowly the wound festers deep and driven.
Don't you know.
These ailments take on a mind for themselves.
why else would we create them if not to one day speak.
It is the stone that shatters a paradigm.
The avalanche brought down by a whisper.
Or rather a whimper.
Yet there can be no tears here.
Not when this creations time was set.
Don't be fooled by negligence wearing the mask of ignorance.
But first its time to put down the blame.
For there is no one else in the room....
...And that laughing was beginning to irritate.
Faded as that 90’s graffiti on the train station walls,
Old locomotives, their engines cease to spin and sputter.
Little mice, too famished in their task, caress cogs and messages,
From places, too dark to read, the notes pile up.
Some, I think, may be blank.
Some, I could not read, as I scribbled those promises too fast.
A great mound of empty words made from a tree now dead.
The cogs move no more, I doubt they were ever connected before…


In line for a one-way ticket out of this grave land,
My baggage gripped tight with both hands- makes it difficult to keep in check,
I try to hide it with a smile, no one offers to help.
Surprisingly sullen, my every movement seems to echo from bold, cold walls,
The insignia behind the ticket master’s house is sprayed in red and it reads:
‘This was always a one-way trip’
I bite my lip, try to understand how to turn menace into sand,
This station is run by ghosts. I can feel them watching from holes in the wall.


I was asked by a stranger, “why did you come here”,
My staggered recoil from justice and reason must have been enough,
When I looked back, my persecutor was lost to an empty hall,
And the bones of this room can be seen when it breathes,
So clear, not seen the sun shine in a long time,
Startled like a bird falling into a pool, I wonder why I came here at all.


I talk to the ticket officer, this hat worn low, talking from a dark place,
I want to know, “the time of the next train please”,
But the man only holds my gaze, from beneath his low cap
Motionless, the spindly man holds all the cards, then blows away into the wind.
Left his own station in search of tracks. Somewhere remote
The sun is shining, and life is dead upon this new day.


Perhaps it is too early, I sit and wait for someone to talk to,
“You know that bag must be awfully heavy, please let me carry it for you”,
I shake my head and grip what is mine a little tighter,
“Don’t be afraid to let me in, I only want to help you free your light”,
But I don’t care for skin or bones, I set down my bag and watch,
The man of bones, with dreams larger than his stake,
Perhaps, if you were not so far away, you would have the strength to exist,
I look up to see the man who tried so frugally,
Met by dead air, perfectly comfortable- without a friend in the world.


I take a stroll down the decrepit tracks, cold air grasps at skin and sense,
Just to see the colour of the rust, and what the reaction was,
The trains and tracks are turning bitter-brown and discoloured purple,
Holes are manifesting themselves into the carriage, much less comfortable than I ever knew.
I step on the dead cartridge, much less comfortable than I ever-
Reliving a time when the carriage was bright, and laughter echoed the halls,
Far down the musky, dark-grey scope, I can hear the faint sobs of a child,
Inevitably, I find the kid, small and frail, sobbing into his hands from under his hat.


“Dear Michael, this carcass is the last place that I expected to find you”,
I kneel down beside the boy and tell him what comes from inside”
“You didn’t spend much time here when we were alive, I am leaving you Michael, your world is cold and dead”.
The boy trembles before sobbing turns to cold laughter,
He lifts his head and I peer into two dark and empty sockets,
Pristine, white bones contrast the encroaching darkness,
Michael tells me: “There is no leaving this place”.


The skeleton child’s words are empty.


A little while down the track, darkness pours from every crack,
Each train looks as dead as the one that was mine,
I follow a trail of disfunction to the end of the line,
Where I find a train, most unlike the rest, its silky black skin has been kept intact,
Monstrous, foreboding and intimidating, the conductor keeps the fire stoked,
Red mist puffs from the window, horror stagnant beauty feels and flows.


The walls of the carriage are meticulously decorated,
Framed pictures resting on crimson silk, a life frozen in time,
I am not welcome here,
Presently, a feral scream from far away- the engine room,
A mad man armed with fire eyed fury,
Jackal Rushes through moment and memory in fear and panic,
The first thing in this nightmare clad in skin,
The man stands still, full height, coloured in… I look into his eyes:


I fall back through twisted carriages.
Light.
Butterflies protecting fire from rain.
I sleep safe knowing that no one thinks of me.
I am writing a book. One day a character wanted to say something...
The moon is half. So am I
In the wintry night,
remembering lowly
the stories of lonely
of the poorest time
with no one beside
to sing a song  of season
I felt my life treason.
I keep chasing lightning
Trying to catch it, lock it in a bottle
but when I do the bottle cracks
and I’m left empty-handed

Maybe I just don’t have what it takes
Maybe it’s not meant to be
Maybe I don’t know what I really want
Maybe I should let the passion wash away

I keep trying to start over with you
You say I need independency
The decisions should be mine
You say, “Maybe you need love too”
And I realize I don’t think I could take it if you walk away
But there ain’t nothing to do
And I should let it go

I keep trying to start over with me
Maybe I should listen
Get some medicine
Make it pink, I’ll swallow it
But would I be me?
And would you still love me?
And will the sadness go away, or will I just be numb to it?

Lightning brings thunder
Lightning brings grey storms
Why can’t you love me like lightning?
Because I keep losing track of you
And I, I don’t want to listen
Because I keep losing touch with you
And you, you don’t want to listen

I keep chasing lightning
Trying to catch it, lock it in a bottle
but when I do the bottle cracks
and I’m left empty-handed
picture me as nothing more
                             than a
      deflated balloon
         clinging to the walls of your heart
//On her//
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