before you came
my heart was a wasteland
desolate, dark, dreary
black like death

the sun never shown
and the wind always blew

but after you came
my heart grew into a garden
cultivated, clear, colorful
white like life

the sun always shown
and the wind never blew

I wake up to to see a wasteland clearly in vain
Covered with imprints of horror and pain
The shadows of night sneak about in my eyes
All I can see are the Tunnels made to echo my cries
And All I can hear
Is the loud fast rhythm of fear
There is know where to go
chained up in an invisible chian
It feels as though im locked up in a cage of pain
Forever here to witness the bitter cold of this life
Or Perhaps to escape with a with a gleaming sharp knife
Only to think no it's not right
This I must fight
I must find myself light
To end this endless night

“A flame” a familiar voice said “has always been there and never gone out”
I recognize the voice I hear my mind shout
It was the voice of myself I exclaimed with haste
A voice I lost when I entered this place

In front of me was a can of joy
A stalk of memories
I stretched myself out to get the can I barely can reach
and find out what all this can teach
I pull out heat and flame
Disposing of shadows and bringing them shame
The flame flys through the illusion of myself Breaking my chains
And riding me of my pains
I look at the world I was in falling apart
Whilst expelling the bitter and the ****
I knew from that terror.
that place?.

Wandering around this wasteland of my mind
makes me wish I could just leave you/your heart behind
but no matter where I go, no matter what I do
your heart, your love, your being keeps clinging to
this shattered heart of mine and I wonder when
you will stop and realize that your love still lives within
the inside of me and that I can't just stop caring, you see
so please, please, won't you just come back to me???

In Seattle from a hotel windowsill
one can speculate the faults of those
who roam the wasteland below,
only they know
but the darkened alleyway will tell
their story just fine.
There’s a homeless woman who looks down-
right ready to cry when she receives leftovers
and I sit there and ******* hate myself
because I can’t live up to my own expectations.
Seattle is just the excuse really.
There’s a little girl playing on the stairs
who falls but is not defeated
she says it just takes some practice
and in that moment I love her.
Part of me wants to say hold up,
how did you become so smart;
and part of me wants to hold up
a knife to my chest, just to keep something close.
I know I wouldn’t use it that way
I’m a ******* coward and maybe
that’s what brought me here in the first place.
Not to Seattle, but to the windowsill,
where I speculate the faults of those
who call this wasteland home.

ALL THE WORLD'S A STAGE
Where every scene from every play
Ever written flows seamlessly into
Each other in no particular order

ALL THE WORLD'S A ****** MYSTERY  
Where everyone’s a probable suspect
Including  the investigating officers
Playwrights and audience
Yet we’re all sure we know whodunit

ALL THE WORLD'S A COMEDY OR STAND-UP ACT
Where everyone’s a dressed-down clown
Even the straight man and the cast and crew
And everyone plagiarizes the punch-lines

ALL THE WORLD'S A PASSION PLAY
Where everyone’s a martyr
Even the judge and executioners
And the messiah must be
A flavour of the week superstar

ALL THE WORLD'S A  SOAP OPERA OR CRIME DRAMA
Where the cast doesn’t realise
They aren't wearing any clothing
Even though they are seasoned
And respected award winning actors
And the show is being marketed as pornographic

ALL THE WORLD'S AN OFFICIAL DOCUMENTARY
Where everyone’s the subject
Director producer and crew
As long as the camera is rolling
And it’s rolling 24/7 !

ALL THE WORLD'S A REALITY SHOW
Where everyone’s a drama queen
Including the director producer and crew
And the camera is always rolling
Even when there’s no film in it
And the props and stage are constantly being
put-up and torn down all around them

ALL THE WORLD'S A COMEDY/DRAMA
Where nothing’s really that funny
And the edginess is trite and melodramatic
Like a cast of mimes in a Shakespearean play

ALL THE WORLD'S A GAME SHOW
Where everyone is the host
Including the audience
And there are no contestants
Only models on a flashy stage.

She's lounging on the futon playing Stardew Valley. We both get a kick out of it. Mainstream gaming can **** a *****. Exceptions occur, of course. I look into the bathroom mirror through a splatter of mouthwash and toothpaste and groom my hair, my face like I think highly of myself. I don't. I shave and I pluck, admire the edges, pretend I'm of feminine energy, pretend according to the faces and voices that matter. We have to look out for ourselves somehow, but in whole what the world can see of us makes them think we're outsiders trying to climb into an exclusive box. I want to find myself beautiful, and I know you must be happy with yourself, but there's no pleasure in false positives. Where is the touch of appreciation? To struggle visually means that windows are better caked. Not cis, nor have I ever been. In the end, I'm content enough choking in the wasteland.