We’re not so different,
you and I.
Even in the way
we say our last goodbye.
Provoked by hurt that still
makes us cry.
It doesn’t matter since
it was all a lie.

You write tragedies as if your world was built on them.
You describe it like shattered glass pieces, each jagged and broken,
yet each crystallised  like ice, shining beautifully on their own. All a part of a whole.

It’s so beautiful, when you describe the heartbreak. It’s beautiful, the way you cry. It’s beautiful when you say the world is an illusion. You’re beautiful when you say you destroy yourself. You’re a beautiful
sad mess each time.

And I can only wonder how terrible it is in your mind;
the way you destroy yourself. Because you’re beautiful
enough and I don’t know how the world can treat you this way;
how you can do so yourself.

You know, it rains in September.
It also rains in October.
On November.
During December.

It always rains, and rains,
and the sky is crying, because I may
be naming months, but it feels like years to me,
sitting here without you.

Even if her soul was as dark as an explosion of ash, or the darkest shine of an obsidian from the embers of liquid flames. There is still a universe I am searching within her, and she's slowly burning me, and I am fine with that.

Or maybe, the only star I find within her was the sun, and I am one of the planets she's going to slowly destroy.  I would've been fine if I had not known what love was. Content with the distance between us, which was a sea of galaxies only shooting stars seemed to cross.

I was given wings of wax to cross that pain, and to stick her back to the sky once more, to see that sun one more time. Even if I had been falling once--or more than a million times--just for the sake of one person. My wings would've been nothing more, if I had not met her to see her back in the sky. Even if it was to say our last goodbye.

I found solace in the darkness
that has robbed me of my freedom.
The darkness that feeds off of me
when I am nowhere near light.

It dictates my inner most fears of
lingering in the shadows of my own being,
yet lighting a path to my incendiary fate
that I know I can suffer for eternities in
the hellfire of my mind.

But the rain rocks my windows, and thunder claps
against my ear like a game in our room of heaven and hell.
It rattles my inner most being, and the strings that
tie me to my friends and family sever themselves
in the fall of twilight. From that, I know,
darkness has robbed me once again of light.

It’s a bitter fate I had the opportunity to accept;
darkness was then a conformity that I lived with.
My place of dwelling. And from letting this darkness
inhabit me for so long, I have come to love it. I have come
to live with it, for without darkness, light will be no more.
I have learned to love such a feared part of me. A loathed
part of me. I’ve seemed to forgotten it even existed along with me.

Darkness was but another part of me that couldn’t exist without
the light. I was given a chance to live in this world, and I would live. I will live. But life comes before death, and tragedy comes in the middle of our peace. Darkness is just but one of them I have come to accept.

We're all new endings and beginnings,
raised as paramours to our rips and tears.
We swayed like Wordworth's Daffodils,
and we all cried out in the air.

We're faded pictures in an infinity
told to believe in the death of our lives.
But we were never taught how to live
in this world filled with beautiful lies.

So there was no foreground to build upon,
but we were given the chance to survive.
Even when we all can't dance to live,
we can make music to battle the anguished cries.