Ill never write with the constructs
of ink no matter its shading,
                as it has no edges, no fear or freedom.

Instead I use a scalpel to cut clean words
even though not evidentially visible
             all cuts have meaning.


But ever metaphorical stain takes
         time to show its meaning..


You may not see what I mean
         i write in a different manner to


                                    you.
            

But let time show the interpretation
                     that was there but never understood


till you looked beneath the incise significance
               even if not seen now,

                         just realise its there...

Underneath the surface,
the earth is the microwave.
We are the engine, we are the heat wave.

I am missing a large portion of my heart
A lot inside that's been slashed apart
Forfeited innocence in order to get high
Need to understand it
Need to know why

Need a magnifying glass to see the clues
I'm free to find all the ways that before I did lose
Thoughts kept me on the brink of drowning every day
In the nightmare failing to take me away

I ate and overgorged on rich fantasies
Like colored candy ingested impossibilities
Needed more than temporary flavor
Needed a taste I could always savor

Feed my demons with an abundance of doubt
Awakened in body inside and out
Infestation of insecurity
Like plankton multiplying
Blooming in sea

Floor barely visible underneath clustered stuff
Ask myself why I don't care enough
Brain needs rewiring in the worst kind of way
Stopped feeling human
Instead a statue made of clay

To fix all that is broken is an unrealistic concept
Dance around things I'm not ready to accept
Cloak my open wounds
Hide pain that's only mine to know
Pretend underneath is as undamaged as the parts that show

the waves lulled her
into a restful state
until she woke up
deep in the ocean
with tangled seaweed
around her.

"is this how it'll end?"
"no," a voice whispered.
her body valiantly fought
to reach the surface.
she took a much needed breath
as the waves carried her to the shore.

If I were on it, I'd align and live
a day worth the dent,

But if it's obvious or not I sense
created consent.

I try to fabricate a way in which
to break from the grip,

But it's appalling how inactive wings
will stay in the crib.

I see a season peeking in and out of clouds,
twiddle thumbs at my reflection
waiting numb at the direction of the wind

Brittle lungs hope to wrestle the distention
My complexion shows the symptoms
My assumptions were it's manifesting sin

It's the stagnant pool of water
It's a faltering foundation
guiding hands to feed the slaughter
Drawing lines to frame them in.

I make my mirror into butcher,
draw conclusions from the surface,
tunnel deep into the portrait,
judge the avatar as worthless.

We're just lonely little boxes,
on the surface,
if we only see the surface,
but the ocean drowns the treasure
for the divers to uncover

Will the tyrant butcher keep us boxed in cages
dancing superficial cadence
here to languish
never speaking to each other

Or can we assume the seasons feed the roots,
beneath the surface,
seed resurgence of connection,
see a new escape begin.

Cradled by there eyes
as they convulsed me
                  in to oblivion,

with every downfall I was
closer to
              nihility.

Pools of crimson collected in
   my fractured sockets and
my tears
                       drowned within.


They mourned my silence,
       inscribing one last syllable
upon my stomach...
As blood flourished forward from
                                  my dead lips.

Droplets were like rain descending,
as I painted the surrounding
                                           with death.
They were covered also,
for they were close to the cradle
                          when it fell silent.

I kissed each one with claret,
     my mark was upon there façade.

Wild flowers drank upon me,
       seeding them with my last breath.
Where beauty once flourished,
Now blushed roses grow.

I'm a garden of remembrance
to what was,
                    what never shall be.

But my death has sweet aromas to it,
       for all one at a time came to see
What had befallen me.
              Guilt, remorse or curiosity..

To hide a truth, others may fall upon.

But where they expected death,
                                     they saw,
a sight of maroon beauty.

"Curiosity is a  live wire in water,
            with a please read note floating
above it.

           "*You know there going to read it,

And with that, they picked a rose pricking
there finger upon my vengeance.
I could ******* aura that I kissed upon
there last actions
                             so long ago.

There was no scream, just like you can't hear
             a tree fall in a silent forest.

I now feed upon them, for there all here, in
my garden of eternity rotting slowly..
   But there still alive under the surface..
my thorns negating there vocals.

       I'm there cradle and I'm rocking it,
                                      oh so slowly...