Melancholy sea
Drowning in tears of sorrow
From the pain you hide

I have a tendency.
A tendency not many think of
yet
they think of it all the time.
A tendency that,
will never die.
Even if it evokes that pain in me
in the blink of an eye.
This tendency festers,
like an infection

that’s
stopping my heart.
This tendency,
makes me feel everything
and nothing
at the exact same time.
This tendency is making me crazy
but
what if crazy wasn’t so bad?
My tendency
makes me hate myself
and love everything about me
for the exact same reason.

This tendency
can ruin my day.
But,
this tendency,
sits like a sack on my back
that I never want to lose.
Because
despite the straps digging into my sides,
this tendency
is why I cherish being alive.
this tendency,
I speak so poorly of
that I don’t want to leave me be
why
this tendency
is that I tend to love
so hopelessly
it’s the scariest part of me.

to turn into  the whole wide world, the one that I design,
the one with lights of glistening gold
and wonder undefined.
Is to ignore the very brutal truth, on one's own accord,
ignorant and powerful, a
mistake one can't afford.
So here I am, as usual, how deeply I deny,
that "everything isn't so bad"
I stumble in the lie.

..maybe one day i'll get to see, right through the guise of gold-
the one disguising my whole life
the one denial upholds

Goodbye tomorrow- stay away- I wish to be no more.
my heart contorted, my mind deflates as
my soul and spirit tore.

there's a solemn tune in my core
that longs for warmth
- a melodic rhythm
that produces spring's blossom.

though my core is in
solemn mood
but the mind speaks
otherwise
  - its a mess.

still,
never have i asked
something great
like a grand
Autumn concerto
just wanting
his own
music sheet
playing the song
to the one
     who cares.

for how long
will I be
patient,
or where will
I ever find the sign
for the right
notes befitting
to my tunes?

asking questions
only time can tell.
I'll wait....

I can't sleep

No, not because of the demons that normally torment me.
Tonight is different.

I creep downstairs
Footsteps light, floorboards creaking slightly.
My father is playing Fleetwood Mac on the loudspeakers.

Over Stevie Nicks' smooth, crooning voice I tell him to turn it down, in barely a whisper;
"I'm tired, dad.
Let me sleep.
Play it tomorrow."

I walk into the kitchen and mother is there
Awake, still.
Working.
For the both of us.
Both of her useless children.

I take a glass of milk and sit beside her by the dining table,
Jewels strewn across a cloth,
And listen to her excitedly tell me about her designs
With my eyelids half mast

I finish my milk and walk away
A silent goodnight escapes my lips, barely open.
I leave her to her work.

I take a glance at my father; he's watching The View now.
I walk up the stairs again, silent as a mouse.

I can't sleep.

The gleaming pair of crimson red eyes reflect nothing but suffering.
While it's true that those sulfur feathers take flight,
tear holes in the wind, and pierce the night sky,
it's only to get your attention.

Does he have your attention?
He knows he has your attention.
From branch to branch he stares, learns, stalks,
and casts doubt into your impressionable acumen.

You know nothing, and nothing is his forte.
You haven't caught up, but those infinite pools of blood are headed your way.
Don't be afraid, don't scurry, don't cry;
By the end of the night, you'll have seen all,
and you'll be just another in the crimson tide.

The wink of the moon is a forgiving description,
The locks of your hair, brittle and worn,
Every tomb you forebear has a decaying inscription,
Your empty touch can drive even the most stoic to mourn.

Unconsidered by nature, but naturally torn,
The weight you must bear is never applied,
Vengeful at your mention, and your destruction they've sworn,
With the strength of cyanide, but your effects shall never subside.

You keep your fair distance,
Through your eyes you see no favorite,
Sickness plagues all at your mere insistence,
You're a people watcher, a natural behaviorist.

I can't avoid or dismiss you my love,
But Death, my fair maiden, there's not an hour you go undreamed of.

i feel like the equivalent
of an abandoned paintball field.
I guess it could be peaceful.
But its a bit eerie to say the least.
Everything is all faded but you can tell
**** has gone down there.
You just cant know for sure what.
Like youre sure there were some great memories there.
But you also cant rule out
the possibility that
at one point in time,
someone has gotten an eye shot out.