Millions of brave women take to the streets
To defy the government's tendencies,
The head of the serpent the main oppressor
Set to be severed by those who bring life into the world
Suffering for the other half of humanity,
As they think freely,
Create art,
Dream in philosophy
And sit lonely in scarlet clouds of disdain for the political system ripping out their hearts.

And in my delirium,
I realized it was probably an old expression from a census,
And that I too have an unborn sibling with consciousness surely floating in the ether of what comes after death.

Maybe I will come to collide with what would have been companionship and instinct,
Or maybe I'll meet with oblivion like the dread on the end of a needle,
Quick and not at all as bad as anticipated.

If sin is what bars me from enchantment,
I challenge the legitimacy of our creation by perfect being...

Have we ever considered that God too has made mistakes
In giving us the capabilities of genocide...

They say we are flawed experiments of an immaculate design, in the shape of a flawless creator,

Ruling every instance of ****** as an act of iconoclasm.

Where do the sins ends?

What voice should I let entertain my thoughts tonight?

I've settled on that of unborn souls never guilty of hatred, preconceived bias, elitism.

Tonight, I lend my ears to the innocent
Who will judge me by my merit alone.

Constant beauty and contract signing,
Steps outside the door to flashing lights,
Cameras,
From center stage:

Her bedroom of anxiety.

Greeted by the sea of paparazzi,
They seem less genuine than a crowd of assassins,

Only reporting on things that will tear down a reputation,

Publicity that weighs on the soul.

Notoriety was never supposed to make it hard to breathe,
But the only soft air comes on the end of ****** needles
That one day will pass too much relief into your veins

And make a pop star that much more famous.

Awaken on Friday morning with green hair,
Looking every bit as mythical, out of the ordinary as your personality.

Do you remember telling me in my clouded memory that I was loved?

I don't blame you if you don't,
You were shapeshifting, you were busy.
You had more to worry about than my ramblings and poetry.

///Preamble.

Into the past where I find myself slipping,
Forgive me if you find that I'm trespassing.

I see hurt and heartbreak...
Want to bring you back through the vortex
Despite the physical barriers.

How many thousands of men could not break your enigma,
And how many sincere girls have shattered your heart beyond repair?

Oh, who could have blamed you for reading Nabokov in bed?
The marijuana haze was too prevalent,
You having gone years without joy but not a handful of minutes without self-deprecation,

I saw in the full frame of this seriousness,
I cut my hand on the picture frame,
And looked to the floor out of shame.

This is your story after all,
Is it fair if I exclude myself?

///Submersion.

Born under a black sun,
And drowning in the omnipresent light,

The Pantheon took note of the atmosphere,
Heightened with sadness.

But you're locked up, Melpomene,
I hardly know your name,
Your tragic songs...

What quiet, old voice has led me to write this?
The same morning my anxiety had reached its peak
And I had little reason to think you'd reached clarity,
I sat in the hallway of struggled composition,

Arrived at the reckoning that nothing should cause worry,
That questions either warrant answers, spite or silence.

All in between is dictated by sadness,
Dictated by you, then.

Please, step back from the ledge.

Wrapped in electric Christmas sweaters,
Apple cider morning holding whiskey
Feeling nervous.

I watch average people out my window,
I see snow, unique and frozen.

But who cares that everything outside is dying?
Here inside it's a rave, we're all alive and close,

Sweating, comfortable.

It's the only thing tethering me to the Earth.

Staying awake is only fun when there's ecstasy involved,

Depressing news on smartphones,
Roofies and ice cubes.

So much excitement, so little time before death,
Might as well live in excess,
And then stop, suddenly.

I'm in the backseat, speeding out of my comprehension,
Down the road in the darkness
With no choice but to trust you.

You had one request of me:
Play ****** pop music,
And I obliged to heighten the mood
But we're all either melancholy or medicated
So it made no difference,
Except that which was on the surface.
///
Muse of Tragedy, enter...

I have no need to scratch out stage directions,
I inserted myself into the situation.
Because it wasn't you that needed to inspect my dramatic ways.

I hungered for all the calamity you could carry, all the companionship and all the trial.

It's been deep and you've been quiet in getting comfortable with me.

Have I grown familiar to you in how I'm a bumbling mess?

Recognize my form as something better.

I'm desperate for you to see me at the base of my spine, not the top where it connects to my poorly formed brain.

I'm a heavy philosopher when I'm drugged up, I sing The General Specific in bed with the Elf Queen.

How many thousands of times did we make awkward eye contact,
And then receded out of our shells
To both ponder our crises with Sufjan Stevens sad verses falling out from the ceiling.

I've fallen directly in love with life in the nighttime.
///
I'm sure that there was some cloud of fog when I slumped out from your room.
There was a physical haze I was trapped under
Trying to feed you harmony, melody and restore your confidence.

Reading your signals, it says your words don't match the hurting in your eyes,
And that scares me.

In reading the Russian legend of the Snow Maiden,
Doesn't she have to melt in the summer?

It's the delicate balance of nature that ruins any hope I conjure,
But with the temperature dropping below freezing
I'd just as well preserve my happiness
Until I can't control its thawing out
And imminent disintegration.

That, of all things, can wait.