I imagine, quietly,
if this were it.
If, while I waited on this train platform,
this ever-romanticized,
transient in-between,
someone pushed me into the tracks.
It would be an accident, of course.
What was I waiting for, anyway?
The news would hear it first,
and they'd be the first to forget me.
Clamboring over my unremarkable story
to the next and the next and the next.
I hope I'd make a favourable statistic.
Then what family I have would hear,
once they determined who I was,
and they'd worry I wasn't pushed.
They'd have so many questions
I'd be unable to answer,
much like when I visit.
Then would come a lover,
as sad as those who loved me,
and they would keep my photo
until they grew tired of looking.
For their own sake,
I'd hope they got tired quickly.
Friends would remember me
and tell me kind words I wouldn't hear,
and I'd be of no help to them anymore.
Every once in a while,
I'd come up in a conversation,
and I'd hope they'd grin at a memory,
but it would be more likely they'd frown.
There it'd be,
my young life detailed
in saddened conversation and tears,
until I'd be left another piece of the past.
The statistic of an unremarkable life.

I spot the small things
The giraffe balloon
Floating by the window
of my bedroom
Where I brood on the day

I spot the small things
The souped up ride
Tearing past the street
The go faster stripes
breaking my concentration

I spot the small things
The washer of hotels
cleaning the distant windows
along the parallels
As I struggle to work

I spot the small things
The dead pixel on screen
Making the image
slightly unseen
On your update feed

I spot the small things
The name on your message
With a heart on the end
That day was a lesson
Not to blindly trust

I spot the small things
The couple in the corner
Kissing away secretly
I slowly mourn her
You're truly not mine

I spot the small things
The robin on the wall
Serving to remind
To be above it all
and be more than I am

stupid pest
let me rest
i love you
i'm sorry
not best

seeing you slipping in
and out of your selves
it hurts and i
don't wanna be
on your broken shelf
you let me slip off
slap me in face
please only when i ask.

i didn't put you in the dark
they did and they didn't
and trust me i know they did

but you are now
slithering through the dark
by your self
you are felt
let us help

your
self.
for
you.
be
true.

don't want to be in our loop
its really not that cool
sex n ket n i'm not even wet
i'm suffocating
dry eyes
sting
in my distorted head
thinking your are evil
it is me

get me out of his bed
it's not good for you
you're artwork is magical too

mystical
you are not the serpent
you're my temptation

let me stay ok
let me stay away
oh wait

you
do

Paper soulmates
Drawn together by fate
Glued into each other's lived persistently
As we are paper soulmates we are prone wear and tear
Torn paper is truly unfixable
You can only try to sellotape together what has been torn apart
Scrunched paper can't be truly be smoothed out again,
there is still going to be evidence of past experience
Our story Inked onto the pages of our body
Stained by water, the ink smudges off of us
Our stories ??
unreadable

Those brown eyes
tell a story
which yours
never could.

Glasses are fragile;
But don't forget,
some hearts are, too.

My lips has tasted so many, trying to forget you.

He turned to me and winked.
I went "Oh shit."

Seven years later, I came back to find you, waiting.

What drives the dreary droves of men
To make muses mourn the loss of heroes?
When Inky black bulbs of darkness drape the damp and depressing farms,
when using words monster, man make no difference to whom you speak of,
Muses call upon the hails of heroes to Herald and hold a new light.
But lo, no Lord or commoner were called to crack the chilling chains of corruption, and all since were hanged or slaughtered,
So now only dead men swing their swords to singe the horrid evils in some silenced porn of intrepid tragedy.
There is no hope to hold and have, so worry not.
Miserable is merely a commonplace emotion.