World is up,
  I am down.
I am in,
Dirt surrounds.
I am
       falling,
             falling
                  down.
I am in,
The dirt surrounds.
Is it too late now,
Am I too far away?
Am I falling in love,
     Or
         into
              my
                  grave?

a girl found a crown on the street
clink, clank, and rolling to her feet
cold gold touched her pinkish toes-
during inspection the jewels bit her nose

she wore it all day long, in strength
found her chores list lessen in length
people blinded by it's brilliant glint
it gleamed eyes away, replaced the print

each precious stone reworked memories
envious green glass once enemies
now pink, mirrored, singular, hers
to match the crown, she wore silver furs

her cloak dragged upon the ground
other children picked it up, and found
themselves wrapped inside and gone
the village became smaller, the cloak became long

the elders dug deep at the edge of their home
while the girl was away, living alone
they discovered bones, gnawed to stumps
bugs and beetles, full, in mounds and humps

they fit the girl's old clothes perfectly
renewed dead flesh, but hurtfully
her eyes were gone, the crown's centrepiece
the flesh left again, puddled their knees

the girl had died and was eaten, long ago
it took some time, they cried, but now we know
the metal melted her fat and skin and sinew
pock-marked her bones, rotted right through

replaced a monster with her spirit, living dead
used her soul as the cloak's first thread
vacuumed others, knitted them close and thick
a pretty trinket turned poisonous trick

the elders chased the monster away
along with their children, that day
they cried and created new children, then
never let them wander again.

There was a man in a bright white suit.
His date was dressed in charcoal gray.
Dressed were they for a dance at school.
“You look quite dapper!” most would say.

His date’s best friend was also there.
Dressed in white with beautiful hair.
Her date was dressed in charcoal gray.
The same color to his dismay.

The man in the white suit noticed
That the dates’ grays matched perfectly.
A red blotch on his chest showed this.
The girl in white talked carelessly.

Her dress remained pure, without mark.
His suit was all white, but the heart.
The man broken, ready to die.
Her, clueless, not even a sigh.

The man began to long for her,
Even though she was not his date.
He felt so hurt, he was not sure.
Should he tell? Or is it too late?

He had wanted to share this pain,
But her pure white dress would be stained.
He dropped the sin between the two,
Leaving the girl without a clue.

As of now that blotch shows bright red.
Only his date knows what it means
Or wise folk whom this poem have read.
The white dressed girl still purely gleams.

Light shined through the broken cracks in the sky, illuminating the bitter concrete. It stretched itself across the scattered buildings—some stood while others crumpled under the pressure of having to stand tall, or that's what the light thought, at least. After it had reached every inch of the stained windows, it begged for something nostalgic. It needed to touch skin. The light craved the feeling of life. It had been so long since it had felt some sort of animation, so many times it swept the charred lands—exploring, asking for some sort of companionship, but never a response.

By this time of the afternoon, the sun had gained even more strength and it fully penetrated the thick mist of the clouds. This revitalized the light. It gave it some sort of immaculate purpose—some reason to produce beauty for its visitors. What visitors? Where had they gone? Where had they been all the years that the light spent mourning for them? Exhausting his energy time and time again to hound across the streets for that moment of aggrandizing glory—finding what it had searched ever so longly for.

Was this all in vain? Were the constant endeavors of the light only a mere distraction from the one reality it tried so hard to escape? No. No, it couldn't be. Years and years it had put the effort of fighting through the clouds and the storms and the rain and the mist and the fog and the towers and the trees and bushes and yet, it has nothing to show for its deeds. The cruel reality of life or rather the cruel reality of the lack there of life?

“Give up,” the buildings whispered morning after morning. The words, traveling though the air at super sonic speed, caught the light as it reflected through the city. The light—usually unaffected by the words—took notice to them now. It slowed for the first time in years to the point that it stopped halfway through the city. Thoughts creeped out from the air around it; particles floating whispered mockingly to the light.

It had accepted failure. There was no living tissue that it could grace, no child that it could brush its warm fingertips upon. It ascended back to the sky and ignored the rest of the comments that the buildings and storms left it with. For years it hid away in space. The earth was dark. Revolving in endless circle with no clear purpose, no real reason to be afloat.

Time continued to pass. The Light lost track of it and drifted further and further from the sun and earth until it was becoming consumed by the darkness. It made no attempt to rid itself of the evil latching to it; rather, it embraced it. This continued on for eternity until the light could no longer see its own glow. Its only companionship was found in the silence of the deep space.

A cry. A cry from Earth rang out loud. The light could hear it. It struggled desperately to escape the hands of the night—ripping away feverishly. Chained by the fingers of solidarity, it would only move a little until it was brought back to its prison. The cry became louder. It demanded help. The light could do nothing but listen. The cry stopped.

Death. And with that the light followed.

I refuse to wait for a cool Angel when
Some hot Devil's here dying to Love me.*
I refuse to continue trudging the mud for something I might never find
I refuse to continue blindly tracking my Heart, that opportunity now goes to my mind

Wow graphing calculator.
*******.
I could spend so much
time tracing a function
up to infinity, but you will
never let me get there.

Honey is sweet.
Honey is sweet as it's
poured into my throat
in a never ending stream.
But there comes a time
when I am too drunk
on the sugar to
notice that the
sweetness is too thick
for me to
continue to
choke down
anymore.