i tore apart a white rose today
i tore apart
innocence
purity
spirituality
sympathy

how ironic.

i saw a tan old station wagon chugging down the road
i saw
passion
fear
excitement
beginnings

i look at you
i do not see
love
care
fondness
strength

i see a corpse.

I dedicated each shade of sky blue to him
with every darkness I remember my heart's aches
but the luminescence of light blue
with the sun shining life into my eyes
reminded me of his beautiful soul.

A sea of nettles and nails that scream their injustice at you
People who seem like they've shaken off their prickly outsides and their hatred
Turning to congratulate them
Embrace them
Before you find the truth beneath their pillowy covering
Nails can be blunted and nettles can be softened but they remain below your surface,
Waiting for the right moment to be sharpened and grow back their stings

I see your injustice and I raise you my peace
It hurts to tear out your nails and to burn off those nettles
But oh god does it hurt more to walk your tender, soft body through that forest of pain

What is beautiful in San Francisco?
Nothing.
In this city we are all ***** sinners looking for a sweet distraction of purpose.
What is beautiful about San Francisco?
Everything.
In a place where desperation meets innovation, we give birth to skyscrapers, art, music, joy, hate, ***, love, and positively shining ideas. However essential to our existence and our sanity, these things are ugly because they stem from us and are therefore destined to warped, mangled, stretched, killed, and forgotten. But San Francisco tries on, steady as her bridge, to bring people to the enlightened kingdom. But we dark inhabitants are fated to lose the battle; for she cannot help us rise above the pull of the flaws of man.
This is the story of me.
And of Him.
And of San Francisco.
The story of opportunity for a new life, and an unavoidable failure.

Manic Pixie Dream Girl,
I'm sorry I slaughtered
Your sweet-heart

You tasted like
electro-magnetism
when I pulled 
the sword from inside you
like ******* symbolism

In an anti-synchronistic
fashion
I lured you in
Led you on and 
broke the law 
of attraction

It was supposed to slay the dragon
not the anima

All you wanted was
to make me feel alive 
without drugs.

I gave into temptation
And let the patriarchal door 
Of oppression 
Smack your *** 
on the way out

The fire of my *****
went to my head 
And I killed chivalry dead

Long live debauchery

You just wanted to be
the light of my life

Now it's the shadow
And I
******* in light 
of your bloodshed.

there were coffee stains
on the paper
the photography has curled in on itself

sweetie,
the butterfly escaped
from your finger

when it saw the lust
in your eyes

He took what was
Most precious to her.
Pried it out
Of her cold, dead hands.

It was more
Than just a life taken.
It was the life before her,
And the life after.

Cast away, was her name
And shamed, her children were.
Drunk on pride
The man danced where her body lay.

Danced by the fire
And by the blood.
Built his cities
Upon death and decay.

It was more
Than just a life taken.
It was her identity
And eventually his as well.

It will be the end of the man
One day,
When he finally sees the truth
When he can finally feel the pain.

When his children have forgotten
Who they are,
Because his nation was built
Upon another.

And the world hates us now,
But they will cry for us then.
The day we fall
And start all over again.

Familiarity was a safety net I was unconsciously drawn too.
I reaked civic and utter independence,
But as I got thrown to the curb of life I found my self more twisted than a cork in a wine bottle.
I think about fear more than I actually should.
The thoughts of the future consume me and my being,
"I'm destined for  greatness, I know I am, I know I am."
I say it out loud all the time, but little do the eyes around me know that, vaguely do I believe it myself.
Eyes are constantly watching me.
Me.
Me.
With hopes of success, and the temperament that I am meant to be great.
A thinker for the world,
A healer for humanity,
A lover for hope.
As eyes watch god,
My vains bleed fear.
I want to believe.
I want to be.
I want to.
I want to.
I want,
But why do I believe I can't.
The mind is a tricky thing in our classist world of upper elites.
Who's bound to break the boundaries into a world of power.
Who's bound to make a change.
My mind is my epic failure,
and my most distinguished enemy.
My subconscious screams "failure, failure, lose, lose, lose"
My willpower struggles to hold on as the elitist feet of silver knocks me off my horse.
I'm in a epic battle, but sometimes I forget with who.
Is it with me?
Is it with the epic power of this world?
Is it with fear of the future?
Who am I, if I am not adequate to myself,
To my being,
To my heart.
When did I get so lost.
And how did it happen?
Why isn't that rain no longer makes rainbows?
When did lemonaid become bitter?
How do I believe in my hopes and dreams?
Am I weak that I'm afraid of the unknown?
Am I weak because I fall to the feet of lust?
Am I weak, or am I really strong because of the knowledge I gained along the way?
My wine tastes bitter, and aged.
My mind grows tired,
My heart reeks pain.
Silently I stare at the wall because there are no windows or doors.
Silently I sip my bitter wine,
and silently it tastes aged.