And beaneath everything there’s another feeling, the last of them buried beaneath my bones.
The feeling of sitting in the dark, alone.
Some might see it as peaceful; a place for safe keeping for yourself but it’s anything but that.
Instead it is hiding, crawling up into this dark corner because of all the lights flashing at me.
They’re transfixing in a way though, these lights. Like the cacophony of moth wings near that one simple light that hangs suspended in the middle of a hospital room. It’s kind of rancid too in a way.
On reflection, everybody is trying to dissect me.
Dissect me till I am these layers of feelings I store.
But nobody can ever reach down enough to this hidden feeling.
Everybody wants to tear me apart; but I am only flesh and bone.
The only part of me that needs to be torn apart is the one in the darkness, where I am caged and begging to be torn apart.

There’s a House made of Ice
Haunted by sinful vice.
Wilting winter flowers
As frozen frost gate towers.
House is cold and empty
With no lustre of glee.

Lost in the fields of snow
Tears echo in sorrow.
Memories of trauma
Sneak behind like cobra.
House is inhumane
As relationships strain.

To those who reside there
Must be fully aware
There’s a secretive curse
In the House made of Ice.

(c) Jo Swan

Caress and then betray is not my way of love,
To let them wait and stay is not my way of love.

Although sometimes it's true, always seeing this bonding
As just a fleeting play is not my way of love.

Secrets of me and her stay a secret forever,
Putting that on display is not my way of love.

Lies and vile corruption accompanied by ****,
Leading her to that way is not my way of love.

My truth will stay I learned, even if she's beautiful,
With her to go astray is not my way of love.

I am no butterfly, although my life is one,
To love for just a day is not my way of love.

I have no love right now, only a broken heart,
But to wait and decay is not my way of love.

He can’t stand to love,
Yet he can’t stand to hate,
Afraid of exposure,
Its vulnerable weight.
So he builds up his walls,
To protect him from feeling,
Covering old wounds,
Which keeps them from healing.
And she sees he’s guarded,
Yet tries to unveil
The past he is hiding,
His secrets to tell,
Hating his walls,
But she can’t tear them down.
Wherever she is,
He just builds them around.

There is sweetness in your soul

Secrets that are shared between

Your heart and mind

There is nothing you can say

Or do to separate you

From the love that has always

Been yours.

Shift from fear to love

And you will discover

That the Universe has a sublime plan

You will never grow cold from love.

It will always be there

To keep you safe and warm.

~Nathalie

She is
the gift of sorrow,
the language of innocence,
the sound of silence,
the figure of madness.

She is
the sun,
the moon,
the stars,
the destruction.

She is
the blank page,
the book you still haven't finished,
the image you can't understand,
the face of desire
you will be contented,
yet you insatiate.

She is
the idea you once called "dream"
the ache of fears,
a fiendish plague,
a fiendish pain,
the hands you hold
and you lost.

She is
the dawn,
the twilight,
the time warp,
the calamity.

She is
a mystery,
the lies,
the secret you can't decode,
the memories you keep

On the mess of a crumpled
paper sheets,
there she is,
lurking within the covers.