This letter is truly and doubtlessly a letter to the only person who will be left when everyone else is gone. To the woman of my life. To my love, my life, my everything. To me.

Dear me,

You, the way you are, are perfect. You, with your little struggles you bear, with all the strength you carry so desperately around, finding a way to use it in your everyday life. You, with all your words stuck in your throat that you are so scared to say out loud – so you write them down.
You, with your smart-***-mouth trying to make this world a better place. You, who has already realized that you must better yourself first to better others. You are all through perfect in your own way.
And yes, times were tough back then, but you were tougher. You mastered to overcome your biggest fear – the fear to stand for what you want and to love yourself entirely.
And even though, your selflove has improved so much over these past few years, you must learn a lot, you will have to endure a lot of pain and gain a lot of strength.
Selflove is a lifetime process.

My wonderful, beautiful love,
You carry mountains on your back and universes in your mind.
And every single day you wake up you are a better version of yourself.
Whatever you wish to do – do so! This is your life and you have to hold the upper hand in it. You have to be your own master.
Yes, let life be taught by others. Watch them live, but never become someone else while observing.
God did his best in making you special and unique – do not destroy his work of art in imitating.

Learn.
Observe.
Master.

Once you can rely on yourself, you are ready to change the world.
The world is waiting for you to make it the place it deserves to be.
A good place, a place with no fear, with no terror.
A place people can feel secure and loved.
Make this not only a vision but the reality.
Do your best and whatever you have reached at the end of the day – you DID your best.
You were great, and you could not have done any better.

I am proud of you.
And I love you.


To the dearest, most beautiful person on this planet, me.

When you hear about it, you just shake it off
Shake it off like it’s nothing
You know about it, then shrug and go on
But have you ever thought about how they felt
How they felt when they swallowed the pills
Overdosing
When they ate and gave it up again
Over and over
When they went through bottle after bottle
Slipping farther away
When they took the blade, and dragged it over their wrist
Slitting the veins
Have you never thought about what it is like
To pick up a blade, to drag it over your skin
Letting the sting register
Watching, with a sick fascination, as the beads
The beads of crimson blood drip down your arm
Mixing with the tears pouring
Pouring, as you know, you know you’re not good enough
When you realize that you don’t belong
When you realize that you shouldn’t be alive
And you slit the veins
Repeatedly, hoping for it to happen, wanting to leave
Knowing that no one will care
That no one will miss you
Then you come to the prison
The prison called school
Where all you feel is everyone staring at you
Still thinking that you’re just some ******
Some creep that doesn't belong
They don’t know how hurt you are inside
They don’t know how much their words have pierced you
They don’t know that you want them to notice
That you want them to care
You just tug at the sleeves of your sweater
Even though it’s a hot summer day
Just tell yourself that it must stay on
That they can’t know
But they must know
And they might ask you about it
Why you’re different
Why you’re changed
Antisocial
And you want to tell them
You want someone to care
But you lie through your teeth
You lie as you feel the pain start to come
And you know that the lies are the only way to make it out
To make it out without more taunts
And before you regret anything, you go
You go and blend with the crowd
Already wishing you had said something
Anything
Just to keep someone there
Hoping that maybe someone would come
That someone wouldn’t want you to go
But the day drags on
And you just get more side glances
Snickers behind your back
And you finally run home
And burst into the bathroom
Where they wait, shining
Whispering your name
And you know that someone
Someone needs you there
And, already feeling the rush of emotion
You throw off the sweater, the armband
And you pick up the little blade
So much malice
So much relief, in something so small
And just push it into the soft flesh on your arm
Then drag it slowly
Letting yourself feel it
Make it be a punishment
For not being enough
For being a failure
For not being wanted
And you think back, back to the start of the day
When you just wanted to ask a simple question
When they told you to shut up
When they told you they didn’t care
When they told you to jump off a bridge
To just end your life
And as you sit there, hair falling over your face
You just see the earlier scars
Some thin and white
Some thicker, like little knots in your skin
And you go over them, over and over
Until your arm is covered in blood
And you just watch it
Letting it smear
Get on your shirt
Your shorts
And with every slice
You tell yourself not to be such a coward
To just face it
To do it
Because this is the relief
This is what you wait for all day
This is all that goes through your mind all day
Every day
The relief, once you’re alone
When you can hurt yourself, as much as you can
Because you hate yourself so much
Because you just want to leave
And it’s a relief, it really is
No one will understand
When you were younger
And you read about it
You heard about it
You thought how hard it must be
To hurt yourself knowingly, on purpose
But once you start
You can’t stop
Because it’s an addiction
And you can’t break free of its iron grip
And nothing anyone ever says will change it
We all say things we might not mean
We tell people that they are losers
That they are useless
That they should die
But there are people, sensitive, that will take it
The wrong way
Or maybe the right way
You don’t know their power
Their kindness
Until you experience it yourself
As you sit shaking, shuddering, wanting it to end
And they stay with you
Keeping you under control
Changing your mind
Saving a life
Just remember that everyone is hiding something
Whether it be a dark past
Or the loss of someone to suicide
Or the saving of a life
Or the want to slit yourself over and over
Everyone hides something
And in this room
There are doubtlessly several dark secrets
We all say it
We regret it
Or we don’t
I say it so many times
I regret it so many times
I don’t mean it
And you may have noticed
Or maybe you haven’t
Maybe you have and just didn’t bother saying anything
But I hide something
And I’m tired of lies
I’m tired of not having the truth out
I’m tired of having to hide it from everyone
Even my own family
Even the ones that I am supposed to trust the most
I can’t trust them
I can’t trust anyone
I’m too scared
But I’m tired of cowardice
I’m going to break soon
And keeping it in is too much strain
I can’t keep living like this
Maybe I’ll just let the world know
Or maybe it will never know
But some day….I’ll break
And maybe someone will come
And someone will regret something they said
But it’ll be too late
So just think about it
Suicide isn’t funny
Suicide isn’t a joke
Suicide isn’t romantic
Suicide isn’t attention seeking
Suicide isn’t something you just read on the news
It’s something that should be taken seriously
Suicide is real.

Hi, I'm Jackie. I am 18 years old and I'm a senior at Brennan Burton High School in Frederickson, New York. Frederickson is the suburban wasteland that you've doubtlessly seen and read about in countless movies, TV shows and books concerned with life in these mind-numbingly dull pockets of land. If you can even call it "life", that is. However, I find that the aforementioned depictions of the people and happenings in towns like mine are, more often than not, completely wrong. It makes me wonder if the people writing these shows and films have ever taken the initiative to actually venture out of their modest little apartments in SoHo to see for themselves what an actual suburbia feels like. But, I digress... Sort of. The purpose of my story is to try to prove to you that what you think about suburbia is probably all wrong, or mostly wrong.
     Now, where to begin?
     OK. I live in a two-story house that was built in the wake of World War II. It was one of those houses that government built for the soldiers who were returning from the war to live happy and prosperous lives in with their smiling families. That was a long time ago though, and now it seems like most of the houses in my town are occupied by single mothers, single fathers or familial units that include a step-mother or step-father. And my family is no different, being made up of my father, Henry (everyone calls him Hank) and my little brother Huxley. My mother was diagnosed with breast cancer only a few months after Huxley was born. They did everyting they could for her, but the cancer was advanced and she passed away only a few months after her initial diganosis. I loved my mother. She was a strong woman, she went to college, got a well paying job and gave birth to two kids. Sounds like a busy life, especially when you take into account that she was only 38 when she died.
     Thinking about her too much kind of shifts me into slow-mo, so I'm moving on. I love my dad, too. He's had a hard life. He grew up in a hard part of the city and had to drop out of school to start working at around 14 or 15. Not too long after he started working to help his family out, his father disappeared. Supposedly, my grandfather was involved with some sketchy people and, without a doubt, probably was involved in some sketchy dealings. Anyway, after he disappeared, my father was forced to work 18 hour days, 7 days a week. My grandmother was an alcoholic and a pill popper before my grandfather disappeared, and afterward it only got worse. One day when my father got home from work, he found his mother drowning in her own ***** on the kitchen floor. He rushed her to hospital, but it was too late. And to top it all off, when he got home, floating in the inch deep puke, he found her suicide note. That's when my father decided to pack his bags and move out of the city. Soon, he found work in an autobody shop and started saving money. Not long after that, his boss introduced him to his daughter who was around the same age. His boss's daughter turned out to be my mom.
     Sorry if all this background is annoying, but I figure if you want to read my story, you might as well know my parents' stories too. After all, if there were no them, then there would be no me. But yeah, my father. He's a good guy. Always quick to make light of any situation. You'll never catch him bringing the emotional air of a situation down. That;s just not how he operates, and now that I think about it, I can see why. If he had made a habit of that, he no doubt would've ended up like his mother. I'm very appreciative of him and everything that he does, I just wish I got around to tell him that more often.
     Then there's my brother Huxley. He's 9 years old, in the 4th grade and was named after Aldous Huxley, the author of Brave New World, my mother's favorite book. The name is eerily fitting too, almost as if his being named after a famous author was a foreshadowing of sorts. While his best friends are playing the latest PlayStation game, Huxley is devouring a novel. Basically, if you put it in front of him, he'll ****** it up and be quoting it the next time you see him. He's a smart kid, a really smart kid and I couldn't be prouder as an older sister, especially these days, when the only ting kids read are text messages and Facebook statuses. Whenever I go to the library to finish schoolwork, I always try to pick something up for him. The last one I got him was Carrie by Stephen King, one of my favorite authors. After he finished it though, he told me he'd much rather me bring him home another Nicholas Sparks book. I can't say you would ever hear those words coming out of my mouth, but I admire the kid's openness. I picked him up The Choice a few days ago, and when I checked in on him that night his smile was never brighter. He quickly kissed my cheek and told me he only had a few chapters left so I had to leave him be. All in all, he's quiet, shy and sensitive and I love him for that.

I shake awake in the sleep…
The invisible dialogues, unable
to distinguish from darkness
vexes me...
I have heard the sob of the horn bill of the freedom
throughout the half broken dreams…
you also may blame me like my mother
that it’s because not pray to God when I go to bed…
For how many ‘freedoms’
I've been kept decorated
in the living room?
the fishes in aquariums
are not the beauty kept in the glass pots
but freedom closed in the glass…
While the fishes argue that
the three quarter of the world has made for them,
looking towards the open canopy of freedom,
the love birds, quibble me from the cages
that what I caged is the word of ‘freedom’ itself.

Doubtlessly, creating Auschwitz cells in living rooms
how can I speak about the freedom?

Having exempted the birds towards canopy of indulgence
the fishes to the sea of the rights,
I went to fly in the freedom of sleep
forgetting to pray to God…
then, I know
the birds from the canopy of indulgence
and the fishes from the sea of the rights,
are praying God for the sake of me…

It can't be easy

being the patron saint of sinners

but ****** all if you don't make it seem that way.



You look so good in blue,

as you serenely sway along the streets

touching the eyes of blind

just like Christ's own messenger.



The dirt and dust that coats us all

never seems to stick to you,

the disease that cripples us

you cast off with a twist of your

white hand.



You're silhouetted form

against the wall,

cast from an acrid fire

gave me some kind of hope.

A soft whisper of a word

that you produced from nowhere

made me feel like I could be you.



Wars seem to die between

your lips

and so could I.



You might as well have wings.



But where are you tonight?

If this were a stainless life, where my wishes outran my dreams, I would be your Muse. You would be my consummate liberation. Pure. We would be two impeccable and intricate halves to a Whole.

I would delicately whisper the perfection of your thoughts. You would always know that every throbbing second of missing you scalds my chest like a straight shot of whiskey. I would always be guarded in your warrior arms incessantly, while your trembling fingertips fumble & untangle the strands of my hair. This, my love, parallel with your parted angel lips, perishing to ******* skin like deliverance. But instead, let me savor the deep sighs of your soul as you read me poems of Us in an embrace that vows timelessness. You would always deeply crave to flicker your tongue on my **** with the barbarity of a dragonflies' wings. (******* & Button too, please.) Our Love would always be frail and delicate enough to cradle a wounded sparrow or a bruised robins' egg. I would kiss away-- the raw heaviness of the world, the look of disquiet on your face during a restless & riotous week, the howling tears and grieving weeps on your cheeks that you never knew how to cry, your sad eyelids goodnight when a sinuous and cruel current of doubt tries to wash us out. The words we spoke to each other would always be used as a sanctity & a solace at all times and never to rage or destroy or damage. I would revel in the chasms of your heart when I heard our childs' laughter. We would float when you held my hand. In the mall. At the grocery store. In the car. On the sofa. Everywhere. We would always remember that every sky is not pale blue, that every rainfall is not tame, that every grin does not always radiate truth, but if we have each other we will always be pacified. We would never cease to see the fate of our boundless love with every docile or rowdy or concise kiss. We would reconstruct the phantoms of both our pasts into worthless and abandoned yesterdays, so they can never define Us. I would always appreciate the little things with you; Our harmonized breaths as we sleep, the pull of gravity when you take my breath away, every note in our favorite songs, the faint sunlight in Autumn that pierces your eyes to make them crystal, the crust of the moon in the cloudless night sky as we dream in each others arms, every precious word that is conceived behind your sinless lips, every wave and surge of ecstasy of every crescendo in the raptures of our frenzied desires, every smile that is illustrated by you. I would never stop reading you, interpreting you, learning you, saving you, holding you. I would anchor our wary hearts, fasten our hopeful eyes, meet you at every opened door, walk with you down every path of life, and never stop collapsing and descending and falling madly, deliriously, wildly, deeply, doubtlessly in Love with you. Sometimes we would cry ourselves to sleep until the weight of our pseudo laments turned into vigor. I would try my very best soothe every hurt, heal every scar, fight every war. Take every battle and make it mine so that you never have to fight. So that you never have to try. So that you never have to struggle. You would sing me to sleep; soft and quietly, out of tone and raspy, whispering and sleepy. We would just be, simply, us.

gallows on the rooftop
where window washers go
                            to suspend
metal gibbet
            quick hinge, raise and lock
secure against the weather

whipped                                
  combed and packed snow
    ice crusted dunes
strain the winds over the buildings roofing
                                 an extreme combing exposure
                                
doubtlessly
they'll be no labor done today

On the seventh floor
i watch from behind
              an environment sealed window
              wolfing my lunch on a short break
                                in the warm fire escape

i watch
a solitary worker is ejected from a hatch in the exterior wall
                                      cuffed by a spasm of wind
he descends a short bolted ladder
              and makes a geared approach
crouching
his weight against the wind  
          he drags a heavy kit
            mummified in protective clothing
              passing my spot and he then heads outward
                    towards the bounds of the rooftop
he mends a stable stance
one foot close to the edge
the rest of him
in a low defensive pose
clips his harness to the gallows
stands to take a confident beating
            of the breath stealing
                      brawling winter gale
he radios for the gantry to be raised

You gave me a Friday feeling continuously
Yet I was your Monday morning blues

I incorporated a substantial amount of effort to reveal my love
You thought I was persistent

I arrived on time after anxiously waiting around all morning
You turned up carelessly late to minimise time

We laid upon your bed huddling like innocent penguins to keep warm
I was oblivious to what the upcoming week would bring

I lost the love note which held only a lie
I threw away your lighter as the spark had vanished, just like ours did
Your comforting clothes and plush toy are now doubtlessly collecting dust and cigarette fumes from inside of your closet
You furiously broke the bracelet which I gave to you in pride
You deleted our memories held in pictures
You replaced me in less than 24 hours, so I thought

The truth is, so the fault in our stars quote, I fell in love the way you fall asleep, slowly; and then all at once

I had thought previously that you no longer required my unconditional attention
However I fail to believe this when you are knocking at my door at 3am whilst you're calling out to me in my dreams
I fail to believe this when you start conversations late at night, when thoughts are deep and emotions are raring

Whether we were once magnets facing the attracting way, or you were just a lost soul in need for company I shall never know
But what I do know of, is that today is the day I am fine and content, and one day you will be hurting just like I once was

I live in a city of salty people.
We are all
at times
mean
crass
goatish
people. Like grains of salt
in a salty sea-
-or a salty lake.
but, we are not ever
boring.
we may be salty
but we are doubtlessly very flavorful.
we have more personality
and *****
and character
per square inch
than most of the cities in the world.
most all the cities I have been to, anyway.

anyway.

I am a salty *******
at times
and I have discovered that I
need
a grain of salt in my life.
cold mornings.
a shot of whiskey.
Something to push back
against.
For fighting fake conflict is just
flailing.
I’m trying to tread this
salty
water and keep oxygen in my lungs
just like all the other mouth-breathing saps in this salty pond
pushing each other down to get a breath of fresh ozone and carbon monoxide
and I guess that means I’m fighting
for something.

I would say I love you to the moon and back
but that isn't nearly enough
I could spend twenty-six years of your life
on another planet just for the
hope that I could still return to your arms
and tell you that that is at least how much I loved you.

I could sacrifice my heart because I know that
every part of my body will be infatuated with
your touch even without the heavy breathing and
powerful pumping of your compassion.
I will love you doubtlessly.

coffee house is a place where you doubtlessly see all the people being swept away in an invisible connection you can not see--sometimes, there are also some people who get caught in discussion and stuck by diffusion. the coffee that you drink often converts you its energy to analize your life's difficult problematics.  

coffee house is a place where you will genuinely feel sane if you see some people reading their own scripts or feel well-earned if you witness the self-interested people--where they hear their own tunes just for themselves, where they do not want to give you the same opportunity for joining them in thrilling your cochlear, even through the air filled with whiff of vapour. vapour which doesn't comprise the fumes of nicotine, but there is just a little amount of caffeine in its womb. however, vapour is vapour. it has its ability to serve you an effect to crave which oftenly makes yourself lose its excuse to refuse.

coffee house, is a place for the people who are looking for identities. coffee house is made for the people who keep analizing the layer by layer of their lives, for the ones who keep hunting  the nucleus of your providence's atom, for the people who keep ripping apart their particles. not dalton, neither rutherford, nor thomson, not even bohr, as the ones who might be able to serve you a soup of theory which if you eat it, you might be enlightened and your life might suddenly be well explained. the chaos of your life can not simply be explained that way.

coffee house is a place where you will find the lonely people whose lives will always be tossed around, the people who keep glorifying the fumes of caffeine that can hit you back to the point where you can be boiled by new hopes. and it remains that way all the time.

coffee house is a place for them who are hurt and diseased, but feel like hospitals are not the right house to canalize their moans. precisely, they will find their house here.

in a coffee house, you will learn to be yourself, and you will never find the lesson at all schools.

in a coffee house, you learn how to admit your predestination as the Audience of Lives.

coffee house is a place where you will always find your own cinema seat.

Stefan Sagala,
February 4th 2017.

Stolen words from my mind
Quickly turn to make me blind
With fear in my eyes I turn away
I’ve lost all the words I wanted to say
They reek of death and disease
Then again it’s the dark side I please
If darkness could speak would it be my voice
If life were mine, would it be my choice

something dark within me seeks its way out
could I stop it if it made me scream and shout
in agonizing pain as my insides decayed
would I turn to a husk, gruesomely displayed
upon some freakshow wall above a fire
or would I be made into piano wire?
put in tune with others like me
as we played a dark gloomy symphony
while a vampire danced with his soon-to-be-bride
would I find courage to jump out or hide?

doubtlessly now you think I'm insane
otherwise you'd have words to blame
but you know by now they cannot control
the entity me, though I am not quite whole
speaking of holes, why six feet under
its not like the dead would awake with thunder

enough idle chatter, I know why you're here
to take me away from my mansion this year
shackle me up like my words said you would
tie up my wrists to posts made of wood
i'd laugh in your face and declare you a fool
your torturous ways will only make me look cool

Sat on the bridge.
Legs dangling, swinging in the breeze.
Look closely and little skittish fishes flying like sunlit darts.
Throwing twigs in, so naughty is what we are.
We just love watching them drifting and riding the tide.
Oh look, there's a bigger fish, not a minnow or a stickleback, a little trout maybe.
Gone to quickly, won't be tonight's tea.
A flash of vibrant colour.
Faster than light.
The strike of the kingfisher.
Doubtlessly he caught our trout.
(c)Livvi

doubtlessly swallow the certainty that
i was nothing but necessary foundation
nothing but your essential stabilization
for your cruelly selfish character to devour
i will continue to conduct my silent sorrow
you couldn't even start to comprehend
so obviously unbeknownst to you,
that this, is the heart, that you grew  
and if you ever bother to read this,
it will still be inaudible to you
i condemn my miserable heart
for individualizing this devious,
oh so lonely creature

The metro station caged the slumbering metropolis
From this dingy mid-March town fridged in January wind
A ******* clad explorer marches in mellow strides
All the way to you
To back the lover's whisper spoken by static selfies
With fleshy whiffs, a borrowed jacket and a gawky face
Blind to but maybe fiddly pepples on the ground.

Down at a backstreet diner, its locked out doorstep,
A hygge cover made for two,
Humming low is the city's nocturnal remains' dubstep
Coming from an illuminating exit,
Luring the busy hands and buckled excitement, whereto ----

Whereto the vacant main street glides them
With the at ease traffic,
Down loops of everextending branches
I followed you
To the roundabout between
two surrounding glassware towers
Where gleaming sparks ***** on each other's windows
Divining themselves by lighting up pavements, entrance signs
and glooming heavens.

Corridors, lawned with clutters from refurbishments,
Lead to glassrooms of suspended business meetings,
And that cozy cavern,
Where you flump into a swivel chair.
Your inhibited expression unwinds
As my curious caress explores
The damp torso slumping deeper into the pliable seat.
And a devoted twitch of ecstasy, blossom unexpectedly
On your face,
Which already shied itself away from its audience,
Doubtlessly, for way too many times ----
A candid sight I could only cache from you,
Because I intend to see it again, your effortless reaction.
The sarcoma-like lump left uncut at the bottom,
Wrinkled like wind waves in a Ukiyo-e drawing.
I scoop the saline ripple, so you can taste it beforehand.
Our bodies started gravitating
onto each other or all over the place.
And lips, they startlingly perched,
out of wills, like magnets
For the very first time.

I've been feeling patient.
And I love taking my time with you

Waiting for what?
Nothing much is happening here.
Still, there’s nothing wrong
with waiting around for a while.

The air is amazing tonight.
Damp,
cool enough to make
the earthen odors
mean a little bit more
than they might otherwise.

There were two ravens
on the street lights
earlier this afternoon;
we looked at one another for a minute.

They had their sodium lamps
to roost on,
passing judgement on us below,
but there were other errands to run,
no time for further inquiry
as to the harshness of the gaze they leveled.

Still, we looked upon each other,
it was like they knew something unknowable
to anyone else at all.

We ate a tripe supper,
with beans and onions.
The smell of the tripe was a pleasant,
but readily acknowledged
barnyard smell.
As I chewed, I knew doubtlessly
what I was eating.  
It tasted fine.

After supper came a pair of cigarettes,
some time to walk.

There was no real destination.
The only task was to avoid the torpor
that comes all too readily
once the belly is full.

Now,
the house is asleep.

All but me.

I can still smell the lingering smells
of fried ***** meat and onion.
Now harsh,
a bit unpleasant.

I’ll make enough use
of such a small displeasure,
so as to stay awake just long enough to finish these lines,
take another short stroll
into autumn’s savory fragrances
before sleep steals what’s left
of tonight’s living wage.

*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2018

Who am I
but what I am?

Not quite just
a simple inquiry.
So please reply
distinctly specific
while abandoning logic

Yet please most
definitely clearly.

When am I
but where I am?

A notorious
questioning query.
Quietly sneering,
laughing, awaiting
the one obvious
reasonable answer.

Why am I?

Put surely, not simply.

Only to be?

A rhyming riddle
playing a crescendo
cadence of rebellious
Rock 'n Jazz
and Reggae rhythms?

Yes and still no
but much, doubtlessly,
even much more.

A man is to live!

Truly, inescapably,
always, yet certainly,
only nothing

but far beyond
day to day.


-R.

(06)
-TX

Rude transitional
Vessel conquering
Reaching deeply
Trying each level
Time succession
Rapidly grappling
Softness intensity
Discharging ether
Fuel dark whisp(er)
Paint syncopated
Drawing transition
Hole opens deeply
Perceptional peep(s)
Doubtlessly abated
Strings form syringe
Encapsulated chords
Rupture stagnate air
Steering mind's Roar

The shattered glass covers the path that calls my name,
Cut up and scarred is my past, present, and future,
Yet I bear my heart upon my sleeve to the nameless ahead,
My wall has long since collapsed upon ground, leaving me insecure.

Looking through the eye of my soul I cannot see the ghosts,
Surrounded by the many essences of people once forgotten,
It will always be your broken path, that I remember the most.

Further on, your shadow dances pirouettes along the darken road,
Alongside your silhouette, your aroma leaves a trail of blooming flowers,
My forlorn passageway brightens with your every stroke,
Doubtlessly, I follow; captivated by your power.

Melodies form in the subconsciousness of my mind,
The end of the present journey in sight,
Mid-breath you stop, your grey physique allured by me,
Running is not fast enough to stop your dissolving plight.

Alone again on the my path, witnessing is blooming miracle,
Drops fall from the sky, masking my abominable tears.

Horrendous failure will only occur if I turn my back on the reasoning of wanting to show you euphoria, you've not become evacuated from my mecca of creation.

I've only come to show you that my willingness to learn who you are is forever a drive that will never vanish from my heart, you've been pronounced my friend of travel.

So closely we've balanced our happiness on the line of capture, no more will the company of exposure advance our purity into the aphotic of our entity, soaring doubtlessly.

Written by: Christopher M. Schultz

He told me he loved me yesterday
blurted it out while we walked through the trees
the love came with a but, though, of course,
  can you expect anything less?
  Does love ever come without stipulations?
He said he'll love me only if I'd tattoo his name on my arm for all to see
that makes sense, doesn't it?
Why wouldn't I show the world that this amazing man loves me...
       but it bothers me a little bit
               a lot
       I wish he'd just believe me, forget the rest and concentrate on what  
       I'm telling him
            showing him--
       because my words and actions should be enough to know I love you,
       a tattoo would do none of that,
            except cause me pain and scar my skin,
he's so beautiful and pure-hearted
                 it makes me sick--
it makes me want to be a better person,
       I wish I was a better person,
       he's been through such little heart-break so few challenges
         only those that he's presented himself for sport
he's such a good person
       I feel *****, tainted--
            full of wisdom and thoughtfulness--
       wishing less has happened in my life
            knowing that this is how I'm meant to be
       but also wishing he'd understand that I am beyond our years
       I see the future so clearly
        and I see him in it. But he doesn't seem to realize what an honor that is
           and the only reason why I know doubtlessly that it's an honor
           is because of all my wisdom.
           It's a double-edged sword that I'm proud to wear,
                                       not like a tattoo.

I need patience
Fighting for peace
But there is the silence,
The Darkening Abyss.

I used to dream
How we would kiss,
But there was that dim
And Frightening Abyss.

I used to look
For will without haste,
But You cruelly took
Me away from my place.

I used to think
That there was a thread
Which definitely linked
Mine and your head,

There was that cut
Right in the middle,
So I had to start
Resolving the riddle.

I used to dream
That you're standing near,
But things that I feel -
Are despair and fear.

I used to hope,
But now I do not,
I had to stop
Tying the knot.

How come  I mistook
My Love - with fear?
I dared not look
On my face without tears.

I tear apart
Your image within.
I knew from the start,
I never could win.
...
I need patience
To lower the risk
But there is the silence,
The Darkening Abyss.

The Darkening Abyss
Negates all my will.
Each second we kiss
My heart is in thrill…

I fall in its depths,
The Frightnening Abyss.
I can hear your steps,
Don't let go of me, please.

I fell in Abyss
And found there a thread.
The moment we kissed
I knew where it led.

Mistaken was I?
Or purely naive?
I didn't know why
I didn't just leave.

Totally captivated
Your arms within.
I doubtlessly stated -
I never could win.

We've found freedom
We've found faith
Found how fast life could take it away
Animal prints walking around
We pick ourselves up off the ground
To have it knocking us back down
It made it easy, made it free
Made us hurt till we couldn't see
You'll fly and you'll crawl
Because even angels fall.

Well, its a secret that no one tells
One day its heaven one day its hell
Never let go, never let go... I know
Sympathy died ages ago
But I lost it a whole lot
Death's gateway froze and kept the door locked
After losing it all
We know... Even angels fall

You'll smile, you'll doubtlessly cry
No one really knows why
But, oh the thrill of it all
Makes you think even angels fall
But we were the Satans whom devilishly fell
You're on a ride, you might as well
Open your eyes...

isn't it so painfully obvious
that's an illusion which your
wicked mind presents you
in a dish of fake hopes, on
a bed of lies, garnished with
lost time and impossibilities
and you, the misery-loving
dim-wit, devour it everytime
with your endless appetite
as you did countless times
before and you doubtlessly
will do a countless times
again and again and again
yet every single time, it will
be you, the misery-loving
dim-wit, whose eyes are
full of tears that are induced
by an agonizing, unforgiving
yet familiar ache placed in
your stomache as all you've
eaten was the emptiness of
cold, acrid reality?

September winds
Have turned lukewarm
Yet a pale sun
Still manages to evince
A crimson warmth
Somehow
September nights
Although kissed by
The cracked lips
Of a cloudy mist
Still manages to
wipe itself
With the distant glow
Of a few scattered
sidereal bodies above
The colors of
spring and summer
Have doubtlessly faded
Into a dark oblivion
And the residual beauty
Of autumn
Is marked by long sunsets
Bleeding into the horizon
Yet the pearly dews
Speckled upon
Radiant sunlit petals
Hasn't turned
Into lumps of frost
Even though the
Frigid breaths of winter
Touches their bare skin
As I open my sleepy eyes
Which makes me
Smile and simply believe
That if not all
Mostly everything
will be
Allright
Somehow