I must admit:
I am unwilling to give
even a hint of consideration
to the thought of being anything,
anyone other than that brilliant,
briefly lit comet,
hurtling toward home.

It matters not
where I land,
or who takes pictures from the ground.

This is only a trip.
This is just a ride.
So fleeting, so fiery,
that you wouldn't want to pause to wonder
what you look like up there,
or else you might miss
the very things that make
your fires unforgettable
and your blast burn true.

smoke.

the smell of nicotine
rests on my black
graphic t-shirt.

the dwell of misery
rests on my back,
while music reverbs.

my black vans are
filthy with the weight
of pain.

a wallet,
filled with little notes.
writings from her
in my back pocket.

a very lonely bench awaits
my place as i sit and
try to out smoke
this familiar mental state.

i look out into the
water ahead, the creek’s
liquid mirror reflecting
her aura.

“oh god, not again.”

a sudden and sharp spike
of sadness runs through
me, a longing tear trails
my frozen cheeks.

then i remember him,
and how much i miss him.

i remember him calling out
for me along with mom,
and how harmoniously my
heart would pump gallons
upon gallons of hot burning
blood.

hot burning love.

i take another drag to mask
the molecules of reality
that i wish i wouldn’t have
to inhale.

i look up
at the aligning stars,
and by the grace
of the god i do not
believe in
do i tell you
that i let out a cry
so loud, that he himself must’ve
felt heaven shake.

with water flooding
my brown eyes, i
yelled and pleaded
whatever being
that could hear me
to end me, because

i tell you that
all this pain,

of missing certain people,
of longing for lost love,
of experiencing incompleteness,
of feeling so ******* unable to stand up,
of combatting the poison guilt is,

drags.

at my soul,
harder
than cigarette

smoke.

-melancholicreator

droplets of water strike
my room window
harder than usual.
there’s a storm outside
as well as inside.
rain is supposed to make sleeping
easier but my thoughts
seem to be louder than thunder.

a young soul’s weeping
won't deter the storm one
bit. it’s relentlessness forces
the noise i want to let out
deeper in.

my iphone chimes.
the nerves in my hand tingle
as they feel the vibration.
an instagram notification letting me know
that the one who broke my heart
also liked my picture.

i laugh as i go through your posts.
things aren’t the way you put them out
to be online honey.
oh, how you’d wish they were that way.

subtweets upon subtweets
about how much i hurt you
that matter more than the fact
that i genuinely tried.

had to swallow every problem
you brought upon the table, and naively
i was good to you, not realizing
how toxic our thing was for me.

but i needed you back then.
i wanted this.
it’s all past tense now.
i realized i don’t.

the droplets get quiet as i realize
that no ******* longer
am i going to let you play victim
when you’re the one who dealt the bad cards

oh, would you look at that,
the thunder stopped.
i suppose my realization is the
rainbow that comes after the storm.

-melancholicreator

and *******
baby girl i don't know
if you know this,
but you shine.

this sensation or rush
or tsunami of bliss.
the movements
of the shift of your hips.

the way your hands
fit perfectly in mine
your lips, your jaw, your thighs
my everyday wine and dine.

the sand
underneath my feet flows
as you nourish
my soul and my mind.

-melancholicreator