Life is about hands.**

It is about you
Staring at them
While holding your first cigarette
And you don't know why you do this
But the smoke makes you feel wild
And you crave to feel alive so badly.

It is about you
Staring at them
When you are together with your lover
And by the time you hold their hand
You forget that this love could never win
And that the both of you could never be real.

It is about you
Staring at them
So drunk your parents would be ashamed
Trying to remember how it was
When your hands felt like they belonged to you
Because right now they don't.

It is about you
Staring at them
Signing the lease you wished for
And independence feels so good,
Finally everything seems to work out for you.

It is about you
Staring at them
When the love of your life
Exchanges rings with you
And you never thought that you could be so happy
Or that you could love someone so much.

...

Life is about hands.**

It is about you,
Staring at them
The first time you burned your fingertips
Because you were so curious
and it was forbidden to touch the hotplate.

It is about you
Staring at them
When they are all blue and numb
From the icy touch of snow
After you had a snowball fight
With your best friend from kindergarten.

It is about you
Staring at them
When you are supposed to write an essay
But they won't write anything down
Because you are not at school with your thoughts.

It is about you
Staring at them
The first time you fell for someone
And your burn for the idea of touching them
But you cannot
Because you don't want to be foolish.

It is about you
Staring at them
When they hold alcohol
After you drank your first beer
And it tasted disgusting
But you are one of the cool ones now.

It is about you
Staring at them
In the dark at 3am
Holding your own hand
Because there isn't somebody else who would do this
And you feel so lonely.

...

**** you, Dandelion.
You are a bitter plague.
Your putrid reputation
sows a discording stay.

Your spread your potent seed,
a curse among the others;
how will thy beauty flourish
when murdered is thy mother?

Rose has her vanity,
Daisy has her life;
but you hold a talent
for fertilizing strife.

**** you, Dandelion.
What a pity to be you.
Thy beauty holds no power,
thy talent ruins you.

“ash”

a swelling fills my chest
it sounds like heavy waves crashing
against jagged cliffs

     stars stars stars

silver spears descend
   i am pierced


        here

through my clavicle

the rain-swept streets waft with reminisces
  like stale perfume on a black wrinkled shirt

            my head half
submersed in water


                tickling my ear

        I can hear my nose breathing
                  heart pounding
                      throat gulping

body floating

                         dismembered
                  

                       in this liquid abyss


               like a spirit lost
                        in the neon-green ether
         of absinthe

                            lips
              press against my shivering skin

                 a warm palm plunges

                            clasps my numb hand

   a light delves

                            into the obsidian chasm

                   pallid faces

      innumerable

materialize

               from a cavernous distance      

fiery orbs combust

              crackling

                                like dry wood

                               in a snowy forest

smoke billows
                                     towards the fathomless night
                            
                             rising

                       rising

                rising

                   chest

swells
                      
waves

     crash
    

lungs

            bells
                          

eyes


ash...

II

“Shadow-Play”

The shadows in the corners of the room
whisper my name
they are the same shadows
by alley ways,
            behind tombstones
       beneath beds
inside my head

over the plains

the highest and whitest of clouds
cast darkest hues

the brightest of suns

i think of you

                         the whispers get louder
                         the curtains flutter
                         the air turns colder

somewhere a murmur

                         shhh

be still   be still  my dear

the rope hanging in the attic
                        the vague visions through the static
                                    the tremors of the addict

shhh
  be still
      my dear

                          love casts its pallor
                                blood on pale collar
                                  i hear you call her


                   by candle lights
                        as rain drops
                               and winds howl
                                       and wood creaks


      
               icy razors lay on warm tubs
                            guillotines fly through the air                
                    birds fall from thick heights
               like notes of despair


don't shake your head
it will all end
soon
in the corner of the room
There
where the shadows call out your name
like the wind sweeps the rain


               pull out a smoke
                    drag over a chair
                          sit by the window
                            and stare


there is the world    there is the world
   you are not a part of
                there is the world
            full of cruel love
        there the children laugh and play
like you never have
or ever could

   It’s understood

                  the rain floods into gutters
                       the once crisp leaves drift
                          they sog and they shudder
                          from spring-autumn skies
                                 down down sewage drains
                                     all truths mask in lies
                                          all love in pain      

shhh  shhh

the shadows the shadows

   they whisper my name

III

“eternally…”

I see your spectral silhouette
   hovering on the sea's horizon
      at midnight

  as the surf struggles and collapses
     before my feet

    it's so **** cold
     my gut convulses
      my hands shake
        my being shivers

              your hair whips
                 the dark air
               like thunder

                           the wind lashes
                         my numbed skin with coarse sand


            and it's so dark

                    the moon oscillates wide rings
                            of pallid skeletal light

                               and you flutter there exactly
  where the sun set
       six hours ago

                                 when its afterglow
                    disintegrated
                             pixel x pixel
    

                               your shadowy figure
                                   now beckons

                                      join me
                                    this night
                                and every night

                                    hereafter

                                      love
                          
                              I close my eyes....

                                    ...

dancing and sweating

  we lay in my room

             under burgundy covers

                      reeking of cheap beer
                               and dirt

your ******* still slightly moist
    flung on my chair

  my sticky shirt still emanates smoke
     like an industrial factory

you arms wrap a

He looked at me
The way you look at
Stacked books
On a wooden shelf,
Carefully stroking my spine
After he's done it to
Three other stories
he'd gotten tired of.

Mr. Bookworm,
I am not a fictional option.
Yes, my cover is
Stained
And my last reader
Folded and tampered
With all my pages,
I only wish you'd
Treat this piece of literature
With respect.
You see, Mr. Bookworm,
I'm not a trilogy,
At least I'm not sure yet.
My Author isn't quite done with me. And I find it quite rude
That you stare at my papery insides,
Page after page,
Only to leave me
Back in the shelf,
Collecting dust.
Be patient with me, wandering reader.
Wait for my story
To reach it's ******.
Inhale my aging pages
Until you reach my resolution.
My apologies
For the times I've been
Rewritten.
But wait with me
Till you've reached my story's ending.
Because I swear upon my
Mismatched table of contents,
It will be a story worth telling.