Breathe.
Breathe deep,
and in between
those breaths
bring back
banished beliefs
buried beneath
beyond
broken bonds
and
burnt bliss.

Embers.
Embers everywhere
of emotions
expecting
Elysium’s
elusive embrace.

Roses.
Roses scattering
restlessly;
rarely receiving
reprieve;
reminiscing;
ruing
reproachful ravens
resting
rigidly;
rabidly reaping,
rending
rotten remains,
resenting rainfall
refusing remorse.

Nostalgia.
Nostalgia underneath
neon nightlights;
noticing
nubs,
noises,
nuances;
neither neglecting
nameless
nonbelievers,
nor nurturing
narrow-sighted
naiveté.

Asleep.
Asleep amidst
fleeting azaleas
acknowledging
an abandon
amplifying
already
almighty
affection;
almost
altering
an­cient,
ardent,
adamant
air
as an
ageless art.

Loss.
Loss overpowering;
lost love,
lingering longing,
lasting laments.
Lachrymose lovers
left layers
of a
limited life
within
long-forgotten lore;
lest labeled
Loveless;
left
little
longer
living.

Yearning.
Yearning for
the warmth
of home.
Yesterday,
You
were
yelling
‘YES’
at the top
of your lungs,
and
it
was
enough.
Yet
Yggdrasil
yielded
yew
for years
and years;
young,
yellow yeggs
yanked asunder
Yin
from Yang
into the
ever yonder.

Night-time.
Night-time symphonies
nullify
nothingness;
nourishing
Nyx Nightmother’s
need
of newfound
night-thinkers;
napping
nonchalantly
now,
near,
and nevermore.

~**D.C.

I’m not sure where to go,
but I sure do have a lot to do.
If only my voice didn’t crack whenever I sang.
If only my fingers were steady when I hold a guitar.
If only my feet were coordinated as I start to drum.
If only my ears never missed a cue during a performance.
If only my hands wouldn’t stop as I wrote a song.
There’s so much I want to do,
and I’m just a normal dreamer like everyone else.
It takes both heart and mind to make good music.
You have to sing from your heart,
and you have to keep who’s listening in mind.

~*D.C.

His consciousness moved,
his body did not.
He was bound
to the ground.
A fallen angel
stood amidst
the tempestuous
flames,
yet he did not burn.
The younger brother
was unstable,
malleable;
he must be put
to the test.
Thus,
the angel
fashioned
a blade
of immense strength
that wielded
the powers
of his hell,
upon its hilt
inscribed
-in seraphic
tongue-
Convicta.
Use it
he said.
Use it as
a vessel
of your
hate.
At once,
His soul
clung to
the demonic
weapon,
his body
was left behind.
You cannot leave,
the angel said,
unless he is
brought
to this side.
And Abel knew
what must be done,
and began the
journey out
of the inferno.

~*D.C.

Cursed,
he was;
forced to roam
these lands
until the
last of days.
A divine sigil
rests upon
his brow;
an invitation
to imminent
destruction.
T'was he
who slew
his brother,
and by doing so,
had dug
two graves.
But
his brother
was not lost,
no.
For eons
he slumbered
in the pit;
his revenge
fueling the
raging infernos
that surround him.
Until one day,
he stirred.
And upon his
unholy
resurrection
he recalled
a name,
and his fury
grew all the more.

~*D.C.

You are not weak.
The very fact that you are reading
these lines right now
is proof that you have
survived
until
this
very moment.
There will be scars,
and pain,
and heartache,
but believe me
when I tell you
that you were born
for better days.
True happiness
isn’t born of luxury.
It exists in us all,
and everything
around us.
There are people
who hate the Sun
when they feel its
warmth upon the ground,
yet if they set
their eyes to the sky
would some witness
the canvas of a world
that it’s helping
you to see.
There are those
who spend
their whole lives
screaming at
the universe
to notice their existence,
but this world is already
fine as it is,
and it is the chaos
within ourselves
that hinders us
from noticing.
Find
what makes
your insides sing,
and what sets
your soul on fire.
For you are
a living
celestial body,
and the key
to the universe’s
treasures
was already
within you
from the beginning.

~*D.C.

You are
a work of art;
there is music
in your footsteps,
and melodies
in your voice.
This once
insipid world
is now
full
of colors.
Did you lend a
hand with that?
Did you paint
the skies cerulean,
the curtains green,
the windows red?
In my sorrow
you put a finger
to these lips
as if to say
‘Let us not talk
about sad things’,
then you and I
would speak
about
the goodness
in everything.
Did you lend a
hand with that?
Did you teach
these lips
to express
the miracles
of life,
laughter,
and love?
You had a
gentleness
about those
around you
like you knew
everyone
was fighting
their own battles,
everyone was worth it.
Compassion should
be given where it
is needed.
Did you lend a
hand with that?
Did you show
me when to
give somebody
a shoulder to cry on,
a hand to hold,
a kiss g'night?
Darling,
how I miss you so.
Everything has changed
-even you and I-
but perhaps
you are
all of the
loveliness
that I have written
-and will ever write about-
from the very beginning.
And I
just
couldn’t
grasp you
clearly.
How I
hear,
see,
think,
and feel
are all
different now.
Did you lend
a hand with that?

~*D.C.

Sometimes
you
get used
too much,
and you
confuse bloodstains
for watermarks.
It’d be easier
to pretend like
nothing’s happening,
rather than admitting
that, deep down,
You were hurting.
And you were always hurting.
One minute
everything’s going fine
and the next
you’re breaking down;
tears flowing from your eyes
uncontrollable,
unbearable,
unyielding.
You
look me straight
in the eye,
and I knew
the words
even as
they caught in your lungs,
“Am I okay?”
I shook my head
and said not a word,
as you leaned in close.
In the silence,
I wondered:
Who was consoling whom?
If I close these eyes,
it would feel like
all of those other nights,
or perhaps,
this was still the same night.
And all the heartache,
and truth,
and yearning,
were seeking moonlight
once again.

-D.C.

you make me so unbelievably happy
that flowers have started growing everywhere;
in the vase you left on my windowsill,
in the pillowcase you used last time you slept here,
and in my body, my heart, my lungs.
the air is cleaner, the sky clearer,
i can breathe again.
every so often, i cut a daisy
from around my throat and put it in my hair.
i use them as a reminder
of what you mean to me.
the oxygen in my lungs mixing
with the soil and stems and leaves and petals.
i use them to make me feel alive.

2 am is the hardest
when your mind is racing
your heart is hurting
and
your fingertips are longing
for one more
touch,
grab,
feel,
hold.
so you convince yourself
that your hands are his
and you try to make yourself
feel how he
made you feel
but somehow, you
keep coming up short