When will you ever stop
writing your apologies
in cursive?

When will you ever stop
putting them
on sand?

And here I have been able to find refuge.
It is more than a simple pencil and paper.
This is where my tears fall and my smiles last.
This is where I have been able to find purpose, sincerity, and freedom.
I have found love and understanding.
This is where I found my talent.
Here I have found my sweet escape.
This is where I found myself and I decide to stay.
In the pencil and paper.

I kept you in my heart too long
knowing you were the perfect leech
parasites are meant to take over
especially, when you're already weak
You were the perfect distraction
but, you only gave me empty thrills
I needed you to be there for me
but turns out ghosts aren't real
I should have saw this coming
through your false sincerity
thought you had given me love
when all you gave me is pity
if my words are not verse,
then it is your name I shan't curse

if there
has to be named,
one thing i like is
sincerity.
the way the ocean
is unabashed
in loving the land,
waves kissing shores fierce;
the way the sky
cries and shouts
in his misery;
the honest way
facts stay true:
water flows always down,
freezes always ice,
dies always unseen.
if there is anything
whose taste i adore,
it's sincerity as
my stone heart offers
no empathy, as
news break hearts
and not all souls weeped.
if there
has to be named,
one thing i like is mystery.
it is in the way fire licks
and flickers and burns and
playing is a bet
of safety and danger,
how the weather roars
or settles calm as dead;
unpredictable.
it is how my lips
are pressed tight
against each other
and my heart a windowless,
doorless house.
mystery in the way we smile
behind frowns or cry
behind laughter.
if there's anything
whose taste i adore,
it's the mystery
i subjected on you:
is this heart cruel
or kind?

To hell with all this beauty
Tonight I am a monster
I am the snapping of the nail
The scraping of the blackboard
The taking of the mad hoard
I am the raging drunkard
I will ***** all over this mansion
Full of seismic cracks
Caused by my complete arrogance

The smell will rise like shame
There will be no running
From the greed I succumb to
Under this horror of a sky
There are rumbles and flashes
Crashes and screams
I will make you plead for mercy
Then I will carry on
No stopping me
I have set it free look
No hands
Only bitterness
I am tired of adding colour
To this grey scale morgue of life

I am tired of finding rhymes
Just to make it sound so beautiful
My bounty lies in hate tonight
Resent down to the bottom caverns
For a second wave of angry fits
Smashing the jagged patterns
Into one thousand little pieces
So I may chew on every spike
My gums bleeding my expression
I do not need to write

I need to etch them on the surface
Of my cold stone face of mourning
No light will beat upon this place
Tonight there will be no dawning
Tonight for one night only
You will wretch on my ferocity
Because I need my release you see
Not one thing you will say can stop
The cries of my sincerity

It takes a great deal out of you to admit you're wrong.
We don't ever like to own up to it.
Being wrong isn't on anyone's bucket-list.
(At least no one's I know)
I will say one pro of any apologetic situation:
It is a terrific weapon.
A decent apology can bring most anybody
to their knees.
Frankly, I think we should all relish the opportunity.
Make amends for losing the battle,
and as a result win the war.
However don't take this weapon lightly.
It will jade you.
Ruin your concept of sincerity.
Not just for yourself, but for others.
We must never forget that sometimes we really are
Sorry.
I apologize, dear friend, I seem to have ruined your dinner party
with all my talk of apology.

My love, is like that of
A plant and an oxygen molecule;
It enters my heart and
Nourishes my soul
So that
When it takes its leave
And I see it again,
In its changed form,
Its value is lost to me.

My love is like that of
Alcohol on a wound
Its intoxicating nature pains me
And yet cleanses me
So that when the pain disappears
And the alcohol evaporates
The wound feels prolonged pain
Til it heals,
Even then leaving a scar.

My love... is like that of
A fading memory
With passing time
And lack of remembrance,
When brought forth again,
It becomes a wistful memory.

My love is
Ever so fleeting,
Always misleading,
Waning,
Carefully reeling;
Withdrawing in confusion
Shutting doors,
It ignores
The warmth that surrounds it
For the fear of
Hurting again.

In its fear,
My heart begins to tear
My body loses its warmth
My words lose their strength
My mind loses it conviction
My soul...
Suffers, oppressed in its
Painted prison.