How do I get out? The walls have me captured, I swim in the tank. I have fallen for deep and mesmerising notions, yet we are together. Solitude confines the eyes to a tiny gap in the vastness of a maw. My mouth is agape. Hug me babylove.

People change, yet some will never do. I've been waiting on you. Come around like the summer times and wash over grudges and tries. Is there life beyond the tides? I want to touch it. The simpilicity of an island isolated. Alone.

As the days grow bitter, I skin my head and lay bare my thoughts as if my mind a carpet and my brain the floor. Even with feelings intact I am still disabled, disjointed. An ensemble of atrocities and atrocious lives lived and regretted, I am full of regret. Harm my body not my soul. You have the power and control.

Who will note us then? Why should they, because we exist? It shouldn't come this hard if true. Love.

Of memories lived and breathed, through what I now understand to be stained glass.
A solvent of regret subdues the overbearing advance of pain and killers tonight.
I soak up the taste of wine and passion with fervor and haste, looking for more.

An intrepid search for the strength of utterance ensues in the meadows and marshes of defeat to beget me peace and so-called freedom.
I do not want to be myself any longer.
We are sad things leading about an accursed existence, fabricating and weaving webs all connecting and ensnaring meaning.
The colorfulness of diversity holds our attention and gaze protecting us from the glum lifeless still background, we're doomed to say the least.

I don't want, to die too young; to be remembered as having gone too soon; to be the average, another statistic; to live an average and mundane life.
I need, love; obedience; friendship; trust; loyalty and the opportunity to learn, to live, and to grow.
I am just a boy, looking for love in a never changing world.

Chain down my vision, rob my soul of freedom and clean out my tongue with oil.
Set me loose on the tyrants and let me wallop.
Be my master, enslave my bond and train mine grainy mind to obey.
Disillusion my mixed thoughts and feelings, **** me. Take me from behind, tear everything off and do me in.
Lash my naked nubile body and pour hot water over it all.
Listen to me scream and shriek then do it all over again.
Love is pain. Love is death. Love dies in the end.

The uniquely introspective question every juvenile asks themselves during the excruciating course of an ill-prepared meal. Will I receive the confectionery goodies after and for my sufferance? Will it (and I) be worth it in the end? The answer however, by some freak misfortune lies, rather peevishly, aloft a menacing tower of retrospective terrors. When we kindle the flames of love it is never with the ebbing expectations of failure and dreadful alienation. When we answer the call only the implicitly irrational entities known as our "hearts" hear it is without hesitation (often times) that we go jumping and skipping at the very real risk of falling to our deaths. There's one question we should be asking ourselves and our accomplices: what then happens if and when Love dies? Who will bury him/her? Who will mourn them? Where will Love go after their death? Alright, maybe the queries are more numerous than I have been led to believe but my entreating stands and with veracity. Just as a child gobbling down the few remnant bits of a negligible dinner has his thoughts and focus trained on the prospects of a smooth session with a delectable treat, so too should the hopelessness of lovers be curated by a foreboding sense of the impending if not inevitable demise of affection.

To clarify, I am not a "cynic" nor am I advocating for the altogether culling of idealism and romance, a despot I am not.

I stopped caring in the fifth grade when Jane slept with my cousin on Valentine's. We weren't dating but it did disgust me, my cousin was 16, she was 12 and still had her braces on. No girl should be exposed to the violence of *** at such a pivotal age, but she liked it and she wanted it. No that my cousin cared, he was virile and only wanted a wet hole to stick his little pecker in. That he found in and all over Jane. I watched from my perch as they hungrily undressed and fell over each other on the floor. They looked like lion cubs playing and training, pawing and biting, colliding and caressing. Cousin **** fiddled with the ****** and she stopped him. Jane pulled off her ******* and opened wide her legs. The silhouette effect made everything seem bigger, **** notwithstanding. I tried to look away but childish curiosity pried my eyes wide open and with them my mouth too. I orgled, squinted and panted. I think I drooled at some point too. Then, as they were on intermission I started to feel sleep creeping in. The branch shook with the wind and for the first time I looked down at the expectant ground. I made my way down calmly and went home, still with Jane's image freshly imprinted on my now not so innocent brain. The walk home was long and tortuous. If I could communicate my inner musings and thoughts the adults would laugh and then sternly reproach. I was getting there, adolescence. I was ripe. ***.

The messes
The faces
The curses
The presses
The aces
The purses
The ages
The adages
The appendages,

Enough about me, she fell in love with a coaster, a toaster, a boaster and a griot above all else. It was all vain. He cried in her arms and never got up. **** this stranger, give him life, give him head and head out to town. Mental gratuity brings back memories, and memories bring back, relieve closure, relive. Grieve, and agree. Do you see me? Stop looking at me.

I resign on a bad note, my friend died this morning. I choked her silently in the cold room, I am now afraid to leave the house, her clothes are still on the bed. Memento mori.

People want to live and people want to give. People want to be seen and people want to be heard. People die and people grieve. People speak and people breathe. People weep and people please.

Is it worth it? Is it easy? Is it right? Is it wrong? Have we left? Have we ruin? Are we right? Are we wrong? No one knows. No one throws. No one is right. No one is wrong.

People lie and people die. People love and people lie. People fall in love and people cry. People break and people mend. People are helpless little critters scurrying about under a torn and scarred sky. Lord save us.

Events do not change the truth.

Importune from me
Despair make me guess;
Fulminate against me.
Gauging my own weakness
Cold, emotions I repress,
In old clothes, redress.

They had the nerve to show up at my wedding. I am galloping away, escaping the madness. I have to, for the sake of my as yet untamed sanity.

Are we denying the dying all about us, because we have all but decided to forego contemplations in lieu of more open doors? It's an entire community of individuals and collective mindsets that leap off bridges when it's dark and wet, alone while lonely. I see the darkness in my friends' eyes each time they look into mine, a reflection. Pain makes us remember, it's an indelible instruction on the soul. Forged in blood and tears is a lectern, beaming bright, a beacon. They gather, the lone and lost, souls. Ripped and torn. They look to me for comfort, for solace, finding none they turn their backs and weep, forever rejected and alone. It's still not my fault. I write with all honesty tonight. Pain is a choice, a path the mind consciously takes in response to provocations and stimuli. So, we're troubled, we're neglected and we symbolise our Oedipus Complex which, misinterpreted as other things remains hidden in deeds (endeavours). I'm beginning to regret ever writing this. They make me conform, I'm scared to death and I haven't been doing this for long. Give me some space.

Tears offer good cover. Negligence. Meaningful words, intent. Culpability, homicide and molestation. The difference is in the paper. Someone obviously wanted it that way. I pour my heart out. They deem me insane, weak. I create, they feel me trying to connect, to love. It's not enough. They leave me to die. I'm courageous, I'm envious. Don't encourage me. Embalm me, fluid. We're in drabness, we're playing with it and we're busy existing. You know me, you know her but do you know him? No. Call me in the morning, earliest. I have something to tell you. Sitting in faintness, crimson tides. Draw the curtains, tear off the blinds, see. Lines. The lighting was perfect, she sat and drew. Highlighting my imperfections and anatomy, I was smiling. She had to know me and they would see it. They had to see me and she grew to know me. Her body was a work of art. A grandly majestic one at that. Effeminate features broke loose all over my face and I tried to conceal my gracious side. I was caught. Unaware. Tonight we dine. This night I go to bed with you. Unashamed.