We all speak,

What has been told already,

In alphabets and words,

Yet claim ideas,

All jumbled and curved,

And somehow I believe, everything has already been heard.

This evening, I am alone, and yet I am not;
Within this barren mansion, no raven to spot.
For the price of solace is solitude,
But this payment can never be made.

“Nevermore!” I mumble in quick succession,
In hopes to ease my growing exasperation;
Yet these words have no such power,
They serve only to torment me, stronger by the hour.

I cut my wrists to forget this pain,
To no avail, only the sheets I stain;
So I gathered them, and burned it all,
The curtains, the pictures, all will fall;
For the flames consume all, save for the feelings,
They crawl.

Homeless, cold, famished but not quite dead yet,
Picked up a torch From the conflagration I’ve set.
Headed north, I depart with pen, paper
And a few pieces of silver.

For I’ve bartered my sanity for a brief respite,
As I walk in these bloodied sandals,
Your profile still in sight.

I left you whilst still in love
because you didn't want to walk
you wanted to run
to your dreams
and you felt you couldn't run
and love at the same time
you only wanted to love yourself
because you couldn't afford to love me
and so I let you fly

you left me whilst still in love
asking for our old photographs & memories
and telling me you love me (liar)
and that your heart longs for me
but your mind doesn't want me
because you can't want me from afar
you didn't want to hurt me
but you said you had no choice
and so you let me die

Beauty is a fallacy.
It makes sense to us,
but who has the right to
determine it?

The majority of the
Population perceives that
they are given that right,
for beauty has been twisted,
manipulated and barbed into
a wire that is toxic and
vehemently grotesque.

Beauty is subjective,
Its core isn’t objective.
We like to think it is,
but in reality, in notions,
in principles, and in practices
it is not

For beauty is determined by grace,
by elegance, and most importantly looks.

Beauty of thought and process
is highly disregarded.
It has become but a mere
illusion, barren in both
the intricacy of reality and truth.

Beauty is subjective, yet
it is determined by predispositions
and implicit standards that
originated many years ago,
yet these originated ideals
still reign supreme today.

Beauty is far more than
an outward façade,
For beauty is truth,
beauty is compassion,
beauty is knowledge
beauty is humility.

their love isn't their own
it isn't a shared moment
like the rest who follow the
straight narrative.

they steal their kisses behind
doors, buildings, alleys,
places people wouldn't pay them any mind.
they flinch in fear.
Afraid to be seen, afraid to show
who they love.

their love is already decided.
They're birthed to follow
the straight narrative.
Having to be with someone,
their heart doesn't desire.
To be what others want.
To be safe.

Their love is too ethereal
for the people who hate them
to ever understand.

Their love is too different
for others to synthesize.
Their love is pure, wild, and spirited.
For they don't follow the bounds
or the narratives
Society has implemented.

As wild and pure and spirited as
their love is. They still
have to hide.
Afraid of isolation
and persecution.
Afraid of loving who
their heart aches for.

Foot tap,
              tap,
                  tapping;
pencil chewed down to the core.
Focus, it will come.