Are thieves ants ?
And are ants up on my pillow ?
Can't count all the trees
that villain up the wallpapers
Immurked
In silent non-light

A Percher weighs himself upon my chest
Fidgeting and hurting the spurring of my breath
I can't speak to he
Nor he to me
I've not made any friends here
I'm always the quiet one.

The tools of the drapes make-eye new fashion
I yawn in-breath the scenery
Til I'm replumbed a fear familiar
I've not taken note
And they'll be a cell toss in the sorrow light
And stern disused adults
With their 'on clockwork troubles'

I turn in this muffle scape
I'm feverless and struggling
In the ample warm bright shade
Capsized in an umbrella
Of an altered canopy nest
Lovingly bed laid
And to the falling
And fawn the ceiling
Well in for teething
Water floats the basin
Town in for weening
The coast of new morning
I gorm to life
Jump started and fit fused

There was one one question, that would not leave my side.
As though when you left me, you gave me this question,
And with it you wanted me to flourish and to grow
But instead, with the weight of this question
I am drowning
Breathing self-doubt,
Inhaling self-loathing,
Exhaling fumes of venomous disappointment.
“Who am I now?”
It plays and plays and plays in my head,
A broken record,
An anthem of ugly truth.
“Who am I now?”
It lives in my shadows,
Stalking me at day,
And it fuels itself with my sleep,
Plaguing my nights.
This burden of a question,
Yet sickeningly,
It is where I find solace.
“Who am I now?”

I could be like her,
Kind, compassionate,
Charismatic and defiant.
I could.
Yet I can't.
“Who am I now?”
Because I am all but what she was,
I have this awful habit you see,
Of making every aspect of me,
A colossal- unmistakable- dissappointment.

There was one one question, that would not leave my side.
As though when you left me, you gave me this question,
And with it you wanted me to flourish and to grow
But instead, with the weight of this question
I am drowning.

Blanching,
at how I **** everything up.
I should be better,
I must be.
But in my wake,
In the wake of your death,
All that remains is chaos.
Carnage.
Anarchy.
Inside,
All is lost,
There is no hope.
I have no hope.

My mind is a map that's been
Scribbled over by a child,
With a black crayon-
No. Charcoal.
Everything I saw to be my future
And the happiness of the past
Is going up in flames,
Roaring flames of burning sunset
And I am sat by the fire
Warming my icy fingers,
The blood drained from each one-
And I watch my life go up in a hazy smoke of blackness
Why?
At least now,
I can bask in the glory,
In the self-doubt.
I don't know who I am.
I don't know who I am.

I want to make you proud.
I want to stop,
Stop hurting,
And still-
I will not let the pain go. In the pain lives,
Your truest memories,
Your purest form.
I will not let go,
I promise.
This **** question,
Will not let me go.
“Who am I now?”

Inside all is lost.
I am groping and grasping,
Clasping and scratching,
At thin air,
Making a humourous, feeble attempt,
At finding,
Peace. Maybe?
Real happiness.
My hands turn up empty,
Tired of trying so hard,
To just be alright.
It's alright.
The happiness stays
At a safe distance
Knowing if it comes too near,
I will pounce.
And I will crush it in my palm,
Because a voice inside screams
I don't deserve it
And I listen
Drunk on painting myself to be,
A colossal- unmistakable- dissappointment.

“Who am I now?”
I know,
I know now.

My mind is a map that's been
Scribbled over by a child,
With a black crayon-
No. Charcoal.
I am the child.
I am the charcoal,
I am the fire,
That is devouring everything I love,
And that includes my sanity,

I am she,
Who pulls the first brick in the wall,
The wall labelled me,
Watching myself crumble,
Basking in the anguish-
I am she.
The enemy avowed,
The snatcher of my peace.
I know who I am now,
I know,
I know.

Gothic dandelions
White perfect
Spheres
Of seeds
Contrast the black
Background of the night
How I wish I can take a picture.

The space in between time is filled with fish,
swimming through dimensions.
They say hello,
if they see a friend,
but mostly they're just red.
All the girl can think of is colours and the wish
to pay attention
to what's moving in the yellow
abyss of distent
in the continuum of dread.

She can not perceive the reason why she'll cry,
but in her heart, there is a cloud
and in her head her own blue voice
that sings to her
day in day out.
When in the young parts of the dry
december night it speaks aloud
by twisted choice
the fish consider
what tomorrow she will smile about.

I wander through the broken door,
the red paint of which is split.
A room I've never seen before,
in which strange faces sit.

They sit and smile, yet do not speak;
I blend into the crowd.
My face, it melts, my breath grows weak,
The faces are so loud.

I try to ask them who they've been,
But cannot find my voice.
I search the room I'd never seen
For some form of second choice.

As I navigate the careless room,
My body disappears.
I'll be one of the faces soon,
A smile forms through my tears.

The burn of the past is in the pain of my fingers
as the clouds of tomorrow loom overhead.
The fear of today should have died, but it lingers
and the key to control is in the purr of a cat.

It asks: “What's that sorrow that you speak of so fondly
and profoundly you cling to in the depth of the night?”
And you cringe and you crouch and you cry so resoundly
that the stars' tumbled tears fill with wisdom and fright.

“Even spiders have hearts that are deemed non-existent,”
says the cat who's own heart has never known cold.
The traces of truth in its words are insistant,
so you crumble and crawl to turn heedless things gold.

If life were a hundred years
I'd lose my name at the hand of time
and travel to the end of the world in advance
at the scoching border of hell I'd dance
to the delusion I was fooled to suffer
and glance back once more
to see I cannot ******* lover's lips
or let the majesty of a butterfly
steal my attention for eternity
I'd watch the gloom strip me off my shell
close to the border of hell
and ask if all along it were mine
can I then succumb in peace
break a ******* with God
and deride the masquerade he hosted?
that of which he always boasted!
But time and time again puts me to bed
with a mouthful of uncertainty
about the end of this entity
which I believed was me
or whatever me could be
life can embarrass time
and cease to age inside the corpse of years
or wilt the petals of a feisty poppy
That is the burden of those whom life endears
For that I sit here and wonder
why indeed did time go under?

Melanie of the morning
Sailed by my parapet
She says, “there’s no use in mourning
When the world is your puppet”

Won’t you come through my window?
For my legs feel frail
She says, “just moan like a minnow
And I’ll be in your mail”

And what a lovely day it is
Flowers taped onto a sign
When the sky is an orange wisp
I’ll be by your side

Oh, I long for her
Searing, fading hair
Still-flowing, spotlight fur
Delouse my glare

I spun around in my chair
Until the white walls caved
I’m ready for her stare
To hold me inside a grave

Soon, the bottom of my ship
Will hold gilded fleece
To keep her warm for a trip
Can a sailor only love the sea?

Melanie, Melanie will come to me

As the kings cross
An alien desert
Both moon
And Neptune
She close to the sky
Where are they going
But farther into
The strange
Desert.