Sweet despair, my midnight mistress, oh how you ignite my passions.
Tribulations infinite spawn manufacts divine.
Complicated algorithms this machine in turmoil fashions,
Weaving, chipping, sieving for a-natural design.

Self-destructive operations tend, the mind, to overwhelm.
Hearty incantations of the spirit, yet, defend.
Pushed beyond his limits, one may wonder-wander to the helm.
Ship's upon doomed missions make their course until their end.

Artificers carve away, their craft: idyllic aestheticians.
Strings that pull on spirits may yet siphon their morale.
Lovers bound in honeymoon reveal themselves unseen magicians,
Summoning forth beauty when the sky itself grows stale.

Bittersweet nostalgia offers weary minds a rest from toil.
Soil seeps between the cracks of memories forgot.
Thunderous infernos, in their glory, burn a shade most royal,
Razor blades, defiant, iterate on what they're not.

And shall it seem a meaning to this story yet remains untold,
Let yourself be made aware; you've yet to see the tale unfold.

the strength in you
is voraciously eaten
by the soul of me.
your hands introduce
the touch of messiahs  
to my frail , battered skin.
the tips of your cosmos
trace my spine
where your lips soon follow.

I am an altar.

Underneath the history,
beneath the blood,
the pain,
the corpses-

Somewhere covered by hatred,
deceit, pride, and jealousy,
below selfishness,
and ignorance-

Under mounds of ash
and toiling,
suffering and
Fear-

Somewhere underneath,
confined to fiction by
weakness:
There is something good.

sunflowers bloom from your lips
you smile and suddenly i can't see
you've got the kind of laughter
that can make the rain sound softer.

I learnt what 17 meant: recklessness, glassy eyes and a firestorm in someone else's chest.

19: a smile carelessly left in the crook of my neck, an hour shy of a sunrise and a firestorm in my chest.