darling, loving me is falling apart with octobers and kissing your poems goodbye. it is watching autumns unfold while slipping into the tracks of a freight train. i will kiss your skin, all chapped lips and sweetened cigarettes, my hands on your neck, as if feeling the walls of an athenian ruin. i will be every distinctive silhouette in a film, every line in a song, every secret spilling gracelessly off your lips before you catch yourself. i will set you on fire and you will burn; all wide-eyed and irises made of the storm, beneath my feather light touches.

i have a proclivity for breaking hearts and you will find yourself neck-deep in whirl of heartbreaks and headlights — all moonstruck and confused. i will break you — destroy you, bit by bit, in the most elaborate, exquisite way, that you will know one thing, darling —

chaos has a tendency to look beautiful.

I can’t force the universe to understand me
I won’t throw a tantrum, two or more folks
That refuse to travel with me on this path
There are more than a billion folks ahead
Of this path, waiting to align with a stranger:
Dancing in the same levels of energies

So I won’t force “ this few” to understand me
Neither will I succumb to their negativity
I soldier on, I carry on, on this lonely path
Knowing the sun will shine someday, on this path
I don’t know when but I carry on like the good farmer

The wind is non-existent here
The leaves have stopped dancing
Yet, the birds still trill your name
Hoping to resurrect you.
Your lack of presence causes
Unrest within my soul.
The fire within burns
                           Ruthlessly…
                             Relentlessly…
                               Continuously…
                                 Causing such misery.

The wind is non-existent here
The leaves are still
Yet, the birds cry out for you
Desperate for your breeze
As I am haunted by your embrace
Your fingertips etch my face
Begging for memories to be erased
As I fall from grace
Aching for an escape.

The wind no longer touches my foundation
I’m stuck in this narration
Due to a cosmic separation
Which causes starvation
For a love that blossomed
In the dead of winter
Such sweet hibernation

The wind is non-existent here.

get your head out of the blues
get your head out of the blues
swim hard ashore, darling
swim hard ashore, darling

There’s a lighthouse; blinking hope
From the horizon,
Beckoning on you to come home
Speedily

get your head out of the ocean-darkness
the morning shall tear to pieces this hold
just get your head out... swim into hope
you’ll embrace...

i wish knowing you're not worth the words is enough to make me stop writing about you.

but apparently, it's not.

and i wish i was sad enough or hurt enough or broken enough to actually feel something, and not just emptiness after emptiness after emptiness.

What must I do?
Here is my list:
Make sure your attention
Is focused on her.
Love her fully, but show it this time
And don't let her hide her feelings.
Do not hide yours,
No matter if you end up hurt,
It's already happened once,
I know you'll love. I know you'll live.

Talk daily, call her, treat her just as she is viewed in your heart.
In the end, you'll still make her feel like the most important person in the world.

That is what matters the most right now

I’m a writer who can not write
a musician who can not play
a drunk who can not drink
I’m emotionless when I
express emotions
onto paper
I’m toneless when
I lie flat on the
keys & strings
I’m impotent when I paint
lustrous images of
graphic lewdness
I balk when I’m willful
I take action apathetically
my purpose subsists
of insignificance
my technique- nightmarish
my craftsmanship- negated
influenced by nothing
guerilla to everything
and dancing in the sunlight
during the nighttime
I have no plans for these hands
no rules, no laws, no bedtimes
just propagate uncontrollably
I’m a deterrent to myself
and the thoughts I project
are like disfigured children
terrorizing the corridors
of blood in my brain.
I don’t know how to create art
and that is the best art
to know how to make.

this is how i'll let you go:

i'll open our photo albums for the last time, touch the yellow edges where your body ends, and not get drunk on what we could have been. i will wipe the coffee stains you left in perfect circles; sometimes, i pretend that they had the color of your eyes when the sunlight hits them. i will scrub your fingerprints off my spine; it's time for them to let me go too — slower, gentler than the way you did.

i will pass by your street, and not send you a bunch of paper rings engraved with all my overused metaphors. i will not hope you'll chase after me, wearing them over the promises we've broken, and over the promises we're yet to break. i will stay up late; midnights are somehow still for missing you, but i won't be writing anything. and we both know it kills me — not writing poems about you, when loving you and losing you are the closest things i ever got to call poetry.

instead, i'll hold on tight on every word that spills out of my mouth, seal them all in a trinket box buried in some place where we let romance die. i will fall asleep next to our cemeteries, wet from the rains we made; i might wake up at 3 am and not think of calling you. and i will wake up at 7 am, when it's still raining, and i will watch the early morning thunderstorms, and i won't wish you're back with it. i will sit there, free from the damp coffee stains and from the traces of your kiss. my tailbone will no longer recall the intricacy found in your fingerprints, and my eyes — they will have forgotten if yours were cobalt or turquoise or electric blue, 'cause darling, maybe it's too late to make you love me again, but it's not too late love myself.

I know I have been okay for a while now, but it feels odd — not knowing how to handle being okay. I have been held captive by the emptiness — the kind that consumes you from the inside out. I have been that girl, trapped in a skin, and my wrists have become the walls she scratches whenever she tries to escape.

I have fallen apart with sunsets to déjà vus I have long forgotten, and my brain — it has become Eris incarnate and my body — her armless prey, walking willingly into her trap. I have been Ophelia, tiptoeing on a willow tree and drowning in a lake of deep, black butterflies. So being okay and all this — it doesn't feel right at all, and maybe it's possible to despair for sadness. Maybe it's possible to morph with the darkness I thought I wanted to escape. Maybe it's possible to ache for self-destruction with an intensity I've never known before.. I no longer know what's wrong with my brain, but maybe it's possible to feel so lost, so broken, so messed up for so long — that being whole feels like a mistake.