All of these questions bubbling up like/
Incessant bubbles in a boiling ***,/
That I don’t think want to be heard. I feel the/
Way you look at me, like I’m waiting to/
Break, come apart at the seams. Avoiding/
me with dull, effortless acts to conceal/
It. What I don’t understand, is why you forced me/
To be this way and then run away from/
It - imagineer of Frankenstein’s image/

Downtrodden paths that once were occupied/
Lay silent, untraveled. Familiar/
Pathways bring familiar memories/
Long forgotten, sweeping beneath cold feet./
Long moonswept hair lays still over a white/
Face. Tree roots like fingers combing through hair/
And caress her porcelain face waiting/
To be found, face down in the cold damp earth./

An empty black canvas live quietly outside of existence,
Perfect and still.
Small ***** of light appear and fester dotting the vast expanse with it’s unorthodox paintbrush.
A startling action occurred and the universe became technicolor and intricate.
Spiraling into the attention of the canvas came a sphere, circling the sun as lover may, depending on one another.
Creatures inhibit a place like this and destroy what little “something” came of this black canvas of nothing,
and all the while the painter kept on creating new miseries.

Soft kisses melt in
The palm of my hand, warm lips
Tainted with new love

A person who is used to leading has trouble accepting new paths and assistance from others. when the world rolls on without us, we lose our way and refuse guidance from others All at once we are lost and alone and seek refuge from an unforgiving world. Somewhere in this darkness, hands grasp unwilling hands and lead us towards the light; show us that it is okay to follow instead of lead.

You’ve gone to places I can’t imagine/
Places I’m not meant to follow, with no/
Intention of coming back. I knew that/
Night was the last and I’m sorry I was/
Broken into thousands of pieces/
When you left. And, I’m sorry I couldn’t/
Be what you wanted anymore. All I/
Know is that you’ve died while still living and/
The person I knew no longer exists./
Ambiguous death has taken place now./
However, it is also true that you/
Can always miss somebody more than you/
Might ever love them. If that’s true, I just/
Might die too, buried deep somewhere with “you”./

It’s unfair that you were the artist.
You created a work of your own
out of my skin and
lived for it,
breathed for it,
died for it -
consumed
my raw flesh and became
part of something unnatural.
You bent the colours
to fit your needs
and painted my face
in white sheets
that you slept in
and I ruined your
perception of me.
You take me,
Bend me; Brake me
It’s all I’m meant to do
So tell me dear painter
Am I your favourite colour
Or have you gone onto
Something new?

I know we built these walls with many broken
promises, and that we meant for them to
be unstable and beautiful. I know
you want me to become something of small
reason or purpose, and I am meant to
be one of many. I know that. But I’m
not and neither are you and I want you
to know that. Stay a while. Don’t leave just yet;
For these broken-memory-bricks are sealed.

You kept the love alive
To **** it at the correct time
While I kept it alive
To see the butterflies
In the sky
With you by my side
Affection seeping into this kiss
Your mouth seeking my lips
For reasons unbeknownst to me

When we collide
It’s as though we’ve become
The eye of the storm
As we intertwine as one
Fleeting flesh, both cold and warm
As we collide
The barren parts of my being
Reside in your senses
Yours for seeing
And transform, implode
Into something
both new and unknown
Colliding is, if only briefly
A moment
Where I expect things to change,
For things to get better.
I think parts of my life will rearrange
Laying spent in your sweater
And then there is the collision,
The moment of impact
Where I steal myself
Look at the facts,
(Although abstract).
You are yours,
And I am mine.
We collide only to part once more.

She smoked like a chimney
Sunk as quickly as broken springs
Breathed like open windows and
Held like a home.
Her heart was a hallway of nomadic veins
Her hair golden honey
Her hands were driven paths beaten with age and
Her eyes were etched from wood
She spoke how a butterfly may land
How anchors may sink
How a petal may fall
but the thing is,
She always did seem to land, sink or fall.

It is better to be alone in a room full of people than to be left to your own devices. It’s much harder to tell yourself you’re fine than it is to tell other people. The thing about crowds is that you have to put on this face to make people believe that you’ve made it through the war, clean of bloodstains and unharmed. You have to pretend that you are stronger than you look. You have to believe it.
But when you’re alone, and nobody is there for you to fool but yourself, it suddenly becomes a struggle to stay lucid in pretty thoughts. When everybody else gets tired of “you” and chooses to leave, you have nowhere else to go.
To find death is the only true escape from these corrosive thoughts we call home.

Birthdays are quite morbid, counting the years we have graced suspended time with our presence. And as these years pass, you wonder how long you have left on this continuously ticking clock; how many more hours you have to slowly decay in the garden of life. Would it still be considered decaying if we stopped watching clocks? Would they tick at all?

Nothing truly belongs to just one person. as we must all move on from these mortal constraints. We continually borrow things from an unknown provider - possessions, thoughts, time. Always taking from mysterious sources. We forget that all that we take must be replaced, in one currency or another.

What if all we saw when we looked at somebody was the way they looked when they’re turned inside out, innards exposed to the outer world. What if we did not see the shell of a person, but instead their essence. what could be achieved, what greatness could we foster if we skipped the extended moments of learning a new person beyond an appearance? who would we be if we were transparent?

Where were you
When it all came crashing down,
When my world fell to ruins
Beneath worn feet?
When my heart clenched, like the torn muscle that it is
I waited
You never came.
I couldn’t breath a painless breath,
I couldn’t feel past this numbness
I had learned to feel after so much pain,
The numbness I had succumbed to in a solemn defeat.
You weren’t there to save me from myself,
Even though you had promised
You would be.
Where were you?

I’m imagining a place where trees stretch their arms to the sky and strain lucidly for stars we cannot reach. The grass reflects subtle lights spawned from fireflies landing in the palms of our hands, still, but alive. It smells of ethylene and the garden looks as though it could foster a plethora of unknown tales from unknown times.
But this place does not exist.

The most mundane of things can hold the most beauty, and even broken things can be useful. The world is full of paradoxes similar to this that we spew from ignorant mouths. The amount of possibilities we pass up in on in the name of caution is often more dangerous than commuting to the idea itself. We continually refuse to give in to primal instincts, continually forget to forget ourselves, so obviously miss out.

Why are we all so afraid to say things we know to be true;
so scared to move in any direction at all because we are scared of getting lost.
what we fail to see is that we are already gone
if we do not tell others where we stand now.
what good is a map without coordinates?
why know north from south if we cannot
decipher which is the right way to go?
the only way to ensure a safe path home is
to tell people you are lost before it is too late.

Scuffs in walls have always interested me. They are both mundane and mysterious in their nature. Perhaps they were made during the process of moving, or while a careless mistake had been made by innocent children.
But perhaps
they were made through mischief and secrets. Perhaps they were made on purpose in an effort to leave a scratch on an already-ruined canvas. Perhaps it was not a mistake at all.
Scuffs on walls are quite similar to scars left on strangers skins; we know not the story behind them or their meaning, whether or not they were made with purpose. All we know is that they are present and that they could be simple or vastly interesting. We know they exist, and that is enough.

It is so pretentious to build things with the intention of sharing them with another,
to assume that we will find somebody at all.
Most everything is meant to be shared,
to be experienced in tandem;
to be seen with more eyes than you possess yourself;
felt with two hearts.
Sometimes, we are lucky enough to find but an extention of ourselves.
But that sinking, aching feeling when
that discovered extension of yourself cannot be found is unmatched,
only describable in the smallest of words - “missing you”.

The transition between seasons makes the trees look strange; like they are both missing something and bare something that they shouldn't simultaneously. The turn of the wind makes trees become barren while still wholly in bloom. the way the leaves look when they finally admit defeat and fall to autumns cruel wind is both beautiful and indescribable, and also entirely imminent.

The day your lover awakes
In the dead of night
With a doubt on their lips
Is the same day that
You lose them

You have become something like a stray piece
of forgotten furniture tucked away
from prying eyes, into the back of my
mind. Still very much there, still unaware
of both your and my own existence here.
Still you are attentive of my actions,
although I have long forgotten you watch
Patiently waiting to be seen, silent.

You are a delicacy - I struggle to find the median between enjoying you entirely too quickly and not experiencing you at all our of fear that you will disappear. I want to indulge in your fine pleasures and forget the meaning of refinement; I want to swallow you whole just to have all of you inside of my yearning body. You are the forbidden fruit that I cannot have, that I must have but once.

There’s something about a woman who is able to appreciate herself without acknowledgement from another. The woman who continues to breath as a man catches his breath; can tell when enough is enough without being notified; who can do what she wants because she knows her happiness is independent from that of another, is always the woman worth having. Be this type of woman.

You think you know love, that you have experienced all that it has to offer, until you are knee deep in passion and a foothold away from being consumed completely. You think you have all of the answers until you are presented with new questions. You think you know love, but you don’t. You don’t know love until you can feel each beat of their heart, until you can feel the rattling breath within your lover’s chest, feel their presence in the wind, the sun and the sky. You think you know love, but you don’t.