you are a work of art, my dear.
a poem,
             prayer,
                         plea
                                and promise.
my greatest love, my biggest fear.
my soul,
              my sanity,
                               my sin.
my heaven, hell and purgatory.
my dear, you are my everything.

can you tell me
my love's worth?
is it as good as yours?
will it ever be enough
to keep you satisfied?
'cause i would break my wrists
and fold my bones,
and wrap my hopes
and dreams around them
with a little red bow
on top,
and fit it all in a box
with a wish and a promise
to always be by your side.
but can my love ever come close
to yours?
will it be enough
to keep you satisfied?

my sea is overflown,
my sea is empty.
the shores are made of ash,
where memories disappear,
where dreams decay and die.
my sea is what i am,
my sea is what you made me.
while every loss feels fresh
inside my mind,
i open up my wrists to start a flood,
i bleed the rivers dry to fill a tub,
i write a conversation for us both;
you're still alive,
i'll soon become a ghost.
my sea is set ablaze,
i'm running out of time.
although my heart is yours,
the sea is mine.

no sound.
when you're drowning there's nothing
but endless, unlimited space,
a bottomless vacuum of thought.
from water we come into the world;
its shallow, yet tight embrace
accompanies us till we're nothing
again.
no strings to be bound,
no sound
and no pain.

i woke up this morning
nostalgic for something
that never was,
but you kissed me once in a dream
and i can't stop thinking about it.
if false comfort is all that i have now,
i'll trade it for just one more chance
to be yours.
don't want to wake up every morning
nostalgic for something
that never was.

i don't believe we've met before,
it brings no pleasure to pretend.
i knew the person that you were,
but now i see there's nothing left
for you to say, for me to change,
like stitching holes inside a dream.
sometimes your home feels like a cage,
sometimes the silence sets you free.
i don't believe we've met before,
but every story has an end.
i loved the person that you were,
but now i know there's nothing left.

don't know if it gets any better,
don't know if it gets any worse.
i've broken myself
just to be reassembled
in rumours and whispers
and false metaphors.
it's not who i am,
stop scratching the surface.
i'm buried behind
private property signs.
dissect all you want,
take things out of context,
just never apply them
to me.
i'm alright.
well, maybe not now,
but i certainly will be
as long as the public
can leave me alone.
i've pushed myself off
the edge,
but it clearly
was never enough,
you will always want more.
and now i don't know
if it gets any better,
and now i'm not sure
it can get any worse.
what's broken sometimes
shouldn't be reassembled,
this person you've made up
holds little resemblance.
it's not who i am,
it's not who i was.

bound by an oath you gave
before you even knew your own name,
held hostage to their righteousness,
consumed by the weight of their sins.
waiting for a punishment that never comes,
hoping for a timely release,
counting the days until you're summoned.
free at last,
free at last.
your only inheritance is fear,
bound by an oath you gave
before you could even speak.

i'm embraced by the tides
as they crash
and spill out of my veins.
i don't think that you're kind
just because you don't ask me
to leave.
i've been following lines,
tracing back
to the dreams that we chased.
i don't think that you're mine
just because you have taught me
to grieve.

and the cruelty's patient,
and the future's all run out of hope.
and it's harder to choose
your own death
than to do what you're told.
i handpicked all my demons
and cut out all my personal space.
i'm embraced by the tides
as they crash
and spill out of my veins.

we write our stories with unsteady hands,
our fingers stained in ink from all the errors,
a silent witness to our hopes and terrors,
it will remember when the world forgets.

and if we make it through to tell the tale,
our voice may linger, but the words will perish,
so we disclose all of our hopes and terrors,
be it in darkness or the light of day.

anonymous or public, foes or friends,
bound, bruised and battling your inner devils,
you'll see yourselves in our hopes and terrors,
preserved in stories, written by our hands.

i didn't ask to join
this endless race
towards some abstract goal
that i don't even want
to achieve.
it wasn't mine to begin with,
yet here i am,
dying for it,
locked in a box
with just enough space
to breathe.
who would've thought
that this is what living
feels like?
who would've thought
that this is how we all
choose to spend
our time?
buried in our own homes,
opening more wounds
with each
passing day,
scratching down the walls,
helplessly gasping
for air,
empty on the inside.

i'm not sad enough
to talk about it
with strangers,
not desperate enough
to take a step forward.
the rooftops are locked,
the bridges too crowded,
the pills, i've already taken enough
to have died a hundred times.
i think i'm immune now.
the whispers, they lie.
i'm stuck in a mirror,
i'm trapped in this life
that doesn't reflect who i am,
and it looks all the same
on the outside.
i'm not mad enough
to shatter my thoughts
on the pavement,
not desperate enough
to lie in the water
and watch it turn red.
the future is fading,
the past is uncertain,
don't know if i even
remember it right,
can't trust my own mind.
it's time to let go,
to stay or to say goodbye.
whatever i choose,
it all looks the same
on the outside.

i'll put some flowers on your grave
and watch the moss grow from your bones.
sometimes it's easier to stay,
you always lived the life you chose.
you always left without goodbyes
and thought that less was saying more.
i wish to join you when i die,
but you won't wait for me, i'm sure.
and if you've already moved on,
i'll write a poem in your name,
and watch the moss grow from your bones
when i put flowers on your grave.

there's a sea
on the other side of this dream,
you will meet yourself
there, on the shore.
she might say
"you're so much braver than me,
'cause, you see,
you've made it here on your own."
she could hold your hand
or hold back a laugh
when the waves catch you off guard
as they break.
there's a life
on the other side of this dream
to welcome you back
once you're awake.

i stay out of it more than i used to,
painting pictures on a metaphorical canvas.
anything is possible if i want to
find something that catches on,
leave everything else that matters
and turn away from it all.

i have great conversations with myself,
drawing memories like a string to wrap and tighten.
i live and die keeping it to myself
with every thought that spills through
like gasoline, begging for a lighter.
i stay out of it more than i used to.

the phenomenon of phantom pain
in limbs that aren't there anymore,
but still itch, still cramp and still ache;
just a memory of a memory, coming apart
with every impossible move that is made.
like a blind man, traversing through the dark,
feeling his way by touch, by sound, by smell
through the endlessly changing world,
guided by his memory, coming apart,
longing for things that aren't there anymore;
the phenomenon of a phantom heart.

i would never hurt you
on purpose,
but i'm not too good
at repenting,
hopelessly entranced
by this poison.
if you still can love me,
please,
love me.
but if you must hate me,
then hate me.

the abundance of possibilities
is making my stomach upset.
i feel like i forgot something,
i feel like i'm always catching up.
the ceiling is getting closer,
i think i'm about to throw up.
everyone's asking who i am
while i dream of a factory reset.

the sun's bleeding into the horizon,
the sun's taking its time to settle and set.
the infinite number of possibilities
is making my stomach upset.

the last thing that you keep is regret;
all the times it went wrong,
all the times they were upset with you.
you hear the words of your friends,
how they wanted to make it,
but all those explanations
are way past their expiration date.
and you don't want to hear it right now,
you're just fine being here,
all alone in your house.
and there's nothing that needs being said;
make a promise to self,
even when life gets sad,
the last thing that you keep is regret.

do you remember the person
that you were
five years ago?
ten years ago?
do you think they were better
at living your life?
would they hold your hand now
or push you off the edge
of your endless agony,
that all-consuming sadness
that's eating away at your mind?
would they take a picture
or just walk by?
do you still wish to go back,
catch up with all the lost time
and make things right?
you're the only version of yourself
that's available
right here and right now,
and did you ever consider
that it's for the best?
maybe past belongs in the past,
maybe you're happier without it.
everything looks more appealing
through the lens
of nostalgia,
but if you remember the person
that you were
five, ten years ago,
do you still think they were better
at living your life?
or are you finally ready
to make it yours?

whenever alone
i can't help but wonder
if i've ever been happy,
or maybe all of those moments
that vanished so easily,
sunken in the waters of time,
maybe they never existed.
because all i remember is sadness,
everything that aches,
every single mistake.
why is it only pain that lingers?
why won't the heartbreak
ever fade away?
i'm losing my grip on what's real,
can't tell truth from the lies
and right from wrong;
as soon as the moment is gone,
it feels like it never existed.
and i can't help but wonder,
whenever alone,
if i've ever been happy
or maybe none of it was real
to begin with,
just a trick of the mind.
maybe sadness is all there is,
all that has always been,
all that can ever be.

i've been living my life
like fulfilling a sentence.
i guess i've been waiting
for someone to save me,
but they never came around.
i have buried myself in the ground
while i was still breathing,
i have punished myself
for the lack of resilience,
i've torn my reflection to pieces
and tried to forget my own name.
i've been waiting for someone to say
that today is the day,
now you know what to do.
i've been wandering, lost,
confused and without a purpose.
i have wished for this life to end
when it left me so hopeless,
when i had no more faith
to hold on to;
i guess now it makes sense.
i've been living my life
like fulfilling a sentence,
so long i've been waiting
for someone to save me;
now i choose to save myself.

she borrows the light from the sun
just before it can set,
slipping to the other side of the horizon,
reflecting it in her irises,
covering them in liquid gold.
she's the entity that the pagans prayed to,
the object of countless legends.
she slips into her skin like a hand-sewn dress,
and everyone who ever loved her
is now consumed by the earth.
she picks flowers that took root in their skulls,
wears a crown of white ribs
and grows around their remains like moss.
she's the end of all things,
the silent watcher of time,
meeting the travelers on every single one
of the countless roads.
she borrows the light from the sun
just before it can set,
breaking through the other side of the horizon,
reflecting it in her irises,
standing by as the world around her burns.

a paradigm of solitude,
a monotone reprise.
she's desperate for a little break
to stop and shut her eyes.
a symphony of tragedy,
a prayer in disguise.
she walks her path so stoically,
but all their hymns are lies.
a disbelieving audience,
a concert of goodbyes.
she's desperate for a little break
to stop and shut her eyes.

the things i've done,
they sank into my skin
and drew a crimson pattern
on the surface,
so when i die,
i want to die with purpose,
and cleanse away
this everlasting sin.

you're not sleeping well,
every next new pill
is but a means to an end,
and it barely means anything at all.
if you dream, you fall,
and that fall's prolonged
by every mantra that someone
advised you to try,
by every breathing exercise
to the sound of the rain or the sea,
and the only thing you see
is the fear of losing your mind.
there's no chemical relief
as there is no magic spell,
for what it's worth
you've tried everything
just to keep your eyelids closed
a little longer.
nothing's working,
you're not sleeping well.

i'm sleepwalking
through my youth,
touching things
that don't touch me back,
wanting people
that break my heart
long before
i can break theirs.
and i wish
i could just disappear,
wouldn't make
any difference at all,
'cause i'm wrong
in so many ways,
telling lies
to pretend i'm whole.
what's the point?
was there one that i missed?
lost the interest
halfway through,
turned to nothing
by half past noon.
i'm so sorry;
i've been sleepwalking
through my youth.

placing bets on a misplaced hope,
filling lungs with denial,
watching it turn into smoke.
it's a poisonous kind of co-dependency,
drowning out the smell of decay
by lighting scented candles.

you can't stop it from spreading further
from your chest to your throat,
so you increase the dosage.
if you go, you'll go on a high note,
filling lungs with denial,
watching it turn to smoke.

we carry our memories like they're a burden,
unspoken, but hopeful that someone, someday
might be brave enough to take a step forward
and share in that weight of invisible pain.
and all that we hold, like a prayer to the broken,
so lonely that silence falls down like a veil,
are hearts, torn and scarred, but bleeding no longer,
in hope that someone might accept them someday.

it's always something, isn't it?
something that was once yours,
something that they took
and then convinced you
that it never really existed.
it was something important, you think.
something that you gave up,
something that wasn't even worth keeping;
anyway, that's what they told you.
"surely, you will be better without it, sweetie."
now that you forgot your own shape
wherever you look - it's all the same,
a convenient fixture to cover a lie.
but does that brief ache every time you smile
ever make you wonder
what that something was?
something that once
used to be yours.

there's something wrong with my head.
minutes turn into days, days turn into nothingness,
fall through me like i'm made of holes,
scars form where grass used to grow.

i'm in the middle of an uninhabited desert,
i'm in a crowd, so dense there's barely room for a breath.
my thoughts follow their own footsteps,
caught in a game of hide-and-seek with myself.

i should've paid more attention to chemistry,
because i think my brain is missing some vital element,
one that would finally show me how to be whole.
but there is something wrong with my head.

i'm sorry if my love is such a burden,
i'm sorry if it's such a waste of time.
i'm sorry if my mind,
can't work the way you want it,
i'm sorry that i didn't learn to lie.
i'm sorry you were never truly mine,
i'm sorry that my heart
can't work the way you want it.
i'm sorry it was such a waste of time,
i'm sorry that my love was such a burden.

all of your insults
and all accusations
have one little fault;
it's reckless of you
to assume
that i'm still alive,
that i haven't bled out
years and years ago.
can't you see
there's a hole
where a heart
should've been?
none of your words
can hurt me
if i'm already
dead and gone;
dead and gone,
and you don't even notice.
go ahead, cut me open,
if it makes
any difference,
just to see
what i'm made of.
but all of your insults
and all accusations
have one little fault;
it's reckless of you
to assume
that i'm still alive.

there is peace to be found in stillness,
watching life play out from a distance
like a belated guest that joined halfway through,
like none of this pain belongs to you
and you could stand up and walk away
anytime if you wished to.
when you see yourself on the screen, does it move you?
do you want to step in and interrupt it,
knowing exactly what's going to happen?
of course, you can always edit it later
before it gets sent to storage,
before you decide which one you like better.
for you are the viewer and the director,
making commentary on your own lack of skill;
an omnipotent deity, if you will.
now that's a comparison you could get behind,
but it's all taking place inside of your mind
and the next scene's coming up soon.
it's a shame you've missed on so much of the plot
worrying about small mistakes.
now you know that nobody else seems to care,
so just take a seat and enjoy the view
like none of those fears belong to you,
watching life reveal itself in the distance.
there is hope to be found in stillness.

i would take a pill
if it really helped,
i would take a handful
if it was the end.
i don't want to wake up
in an empty room,
i don't want to waste it
if it comes too soon.
i don't want to stay here
for another day,
i don't want to chase it
as it slips away.
i would take a pill
if it really helped,
i would take them all
if it was the end.

talk to me.
i've had enough of this silence.
i've never felt so alone in my life,
i've never seen a darkness so deep.
who knew that emptiness could be so heavy;
i suppose, i owe you an apology.
please.
if every next word could be final,
if every next touch could be the last time,
i hope that i see you when i fall asleep.
who knew that even a sinner's worth saving;
i guess, we're about to find out.
if i wait for you at the brink
will you talk to me?

asking questions about things
that shouldn't concern you,
just like your apparent lack of decisiveness
doesn't concern anyone else.
it's your own fault to try an live with,
give it your best shot.
so what if the score
has been rigged from the start,
so what if the odds are never on your side.
your mind is a weapon
that's always aimed at its host.
you don't know how to hope for the best,
but you've gotten so good
at preparing yourself for the worst.
asking questions about things
that were designed to hurt you,
looking for a weak spot.
drowning in hesitation,
hoping to run out of oxygen
right before your own consciousness
takes the chance to tear you apart.

searching for a temporary fixation
that could fix your life,
you don't lack in the dedication department,
but your focus is scattered
and your effort's half-hearted.
and you want to get out of here so badly,
stuck in a loop of endless quotations,
but your mind's been underperforming lately,
sending out "save the date" invitations
to a preemptive memorial service.
that grave's been waiting around for a purpose
ever since the first final warning.
you're not stalling, just weighing your options,
looking convincing in that little black lie.
maybe calling it quits is your calling,
doubling down on the hibernation mode,
half-awake around half past five,
searching for a temporary fixation
that could fix your life.

it's not the kind of place
one wishes to return to,
its welcoming embrace
is made to suffocate.
i wish i could stray from
the path that leads me to it,
but it took everything,
it even claimed my name.
and now i've grown to hate it,
the sound of being seen;
shame makes a perfect rope
to hang my self-esteem.
the memories come in pairs,
but always black and white;
i know that place's a trap,
yet i still crawl inside.
now there is all this pain
preventing my escape,
it whispers "welcome back,
it's time to suffocate."

it's the art of being ****** up,
the testament to sleepless nights,
reading horror stories in the attic,
and almost falling down the stairs
a few times.

it's a promise to never forget
what it feels like to be alone in the dark
at 4 am stealing moonlight kisses
through distorted reflections
of a window glass.

it's a moment to moment race
towards the end that's never the end,
but a beginning of a different life,
and the life that you choose for yourself
never really dies.

it's the art of being ****** up,
the testament to sleepless nights,
talking to ghosts in the attic,
and almost falling down the stairs
a few times.

call me when it's over,
i'd rather not watch it all from the start.
rewind to the credits,
make sure to read every single name out loud.

keep the tape rolling,
there might be a hidden message or two.
my mind is unstable,
but the state of it's got nothing to do with you.

so call me when it's over,
i've seen it a million times inside my head.
rewind to the credits,
read the names and remember that most of them are dead.

if i step into the dark,
don't follow me.
and if i become the dark,
forget me.
for the dark isn't black,
but red,
and it's drowning me.
i won't let you go down
by my side.

they took the light of your soul
and then put it out.
they said that it wasn't on purpose,
but you are the one
who's fading with every night,
the shadows are creeping inside,
it's harder to tell the time
when there's no sun in sight.

they said you don't have much to offer,
an empty vessel for their god.
they stole the light of your soul
just so they could put it out.

you have it,
the most beautiful.
most envied,
most divine,
and even in a room
that's filled with lookalikes
you'll always be the most,
the most, the most -
a priceless treasure.
and maybe it's okay
to only be alive
through other people's eyes,
but someone's always lurking
just outside the frame -
a new obsession, waiting to be found.
most envied,
yet most hated.
there you have it,
the most unloved.

when you knock on my door,
i will welcome you with open arms;
my long lost friend,
my dearest enemy,
my unwritten play in three acts.
my forgotten peace of mind,
the one i never learned to hate,
the one i'll always yearn for;
my oldest regret,
my most recent mistake.
when you knock on my door,
i will let you in, but won't let you stay;
the one i never asked for,
the one who always walks away.

do you still feel my touch
or can i only leave bruises now?
if i'm the one to choose our death,
then you're the one to keep the vow.
when this love becomes too much,
if we live on as ghosts
will our bond be stronger
than it was before?
if i'm the one who let us down,
then you're the one who closed the door.

when the nights grow longer
and the days grow darker,
and the only light is the one
that can be switched off anytime,
you force yourself to wake up,
you force yourself to eat,
you force yourself to try
just a little harder,
and when you need to sleep
you have to force yourself,
ironically enough,
not to think
about the looming danger,
about the trembling hands,
about every test you couldn't pass,
about how the nights are longer
and how the days are darker,
and the only light you've got
is the one inside your heart.

the rain will stop someday,
although there might be floods,
that subsequent collateral damage
that lives in all of us.
and all that we've survived
persists in deserts, running dry;
some water could be what we need
to bring them back to life.
it's hard to turn the page
just as it's hard to start anew,
and every time someone says "no"
we still hear "not for you".
but when the currents change
their flow will wash away the pain.
although there might be floods,
the rain must surely stop someday.

you might meet someone,
be it the darkest night
or the first bright sunlight
of the rest of your life.
and they will look at you
like you're the only one they see,
not knowing that a part of you
still wishes you were here, with me,
be it the burning depths of hell
or the paradise beyond;
they'll never know you quite as well,
it's not their touch for which you yearn,
but i can't take you,
this space was always made for one,
although i loved you,
there's nothing more i could've done.
so i hope you meet someone,
be it in the midst of night
or on the brink of the first sunlight
of the rest of your life.

a thin red line,
it's there for all who do not know
if they are going to be here
to see the sun,
the way it rises,
chasing all the shadows out,
the way it wraps its shining warmth
around the ground,
around our souls.
you make a vow
to fight as long as you still have
the strength to take another breath
and fill your lungs,
and take a step
towards the twilight as it fades
with every star that it creates,
so in its final burst
you hope it takes us all,
may god have mercy on our souls.