I write to stay alive,
To release the words that tear my flesh
In their efforts to be born into this world.
I write to leave my mark on the universe
Rather than leaving marks on my skin.
I write to prevent the silence from strangling me
In its utter oppressiveness.
I write to wash the sins out of my body
And the stains off of my hands.
I bleed ink rather than blood
And wax poetic to avoid coveting new scars.
I write because it's the only way I've ever learned
To externalize the humanity that cuts me so deeply.
I write because language saves me from myself.
I write because my very existence depends on it.

Three years and what do I have to show?
A love sick husband and his alcoholic foe.
There are bottles upon bottles awaiting disposal,
wherein lies my empty proposal,
I will quit.
I will be better.
Things will change.
But does he know of my sorrow and my conflictions?
That maybe "us" isn't the right situation?
That time only told of our failing and misery,
and our inability to escape our unforgivable history.

I hear the hurt in his voice when I call him every day
and I know of the words he's fighting to say,
I can't do this anymore.
I hoped things would change.
It's over.
You try to convince yourself that things will be better.
You try to convince him of the things you wrote in that letter.
I will do what you want me to, to keep you here,
but I cannot sacrifice myself, to whom I am sincere.

A hopeful relationship ruined by an act of selfishness.
A yearning to love but retrained by oppressiveness.
So does hurt, and a want to love save a ****** connection,
or does fate condemn it to eternal damnation?

Look the city is burning.
Can you see it?
This will not be
super flashy
or rise up like a phoenix.

Sleepless eyes
are set in red
aching dry
from crying
for the dead;

While shaking fist
chant and resist
the oppressiveness
that lit this ****
to begin with.

Violence
erupts,
but it was expected,
from seeing the shame
of those who claim
they should be respected
whilst acting like thugs.

It is an irony
that they don’t seem to see
begging for relief
from a similar anxiety
which they imposed
on those
who are just asking for
the grace of human decency.

The city settles
the chaos will resume shortly
and I watch brave warriors
struggle to catch
their tear gassed breathes.

As the likeness of dark; a pathway into
the mind of a depressed tormented soul,—
The beauty of their expression is a walk in
the park. There's a spark to a passionate flame to any art;
But also a hurt of creation from the echo cracks of their heart.

A mountain top I'd have to climb, a large hill made
of stone. A thorn in my side, as the bleeding anguish
to paint out favourable dreams. The kiss of so real;
in a reality painted in the colours of tears.  I've seen things
so clear, to see nothing of this world was meant to be so real.

Yet the realest tears of unanswered prayers, falls upon
the bruises of my knees. Real as knowing not all will
believe in you and your dreams. The Dark's light—is
seeing past the shadow of ominous oppressiveness.
A lasting restlessness of wanting to impress all those
around, the larger crowd, of painted smiles of daily clowns.
They'd easily praise you being brave—the loudest voice of cowards.

They would shoot you down, (bang, bang)
and after you make it big; turn around and say they're so proud.
(Enemies becoming fans) letting it be the case, humble character
wouldn't make a boastful sound. In the end I know my God has
and always been so proud.

There's always a light in the dark.

i can't describe the monsters when they get this close
i can't understand the difference between claws and teeth,
it's all just sharp and shiny
nor push forward and pull back
which way will the demons throw me from that sand-drawn line between
absolutely everything and endlessly nothing?
i can't tell you what they look like,
these time eaters, these body snatchers,
these creatures of the late night mind
all i can say is i am so very tired of running
they chase me quickly through the dark halls of a falling manor
in a world running antiparallel to our own
where the air breathes Death instead of life
i break a mirror and jump on the shards
as if the fractured pieces of myself on the floor can pierce my skin and save me
knowing full well the monsters circle closer, an oppressiveness suffocating space
the last drops of moonlight reflecting their mournful cries for me
before i lie down in defeat

i let the monsters i cannot describe burn through my heart, my soul, my eyes
my last hope ringing in my ears
that the world will know i never really wanted to
die.

A young girl climbs the rickety ladder
for what seemed like the hundredth time
eager to enter the castaway world tucked silently above.
The taut metal springs strumming loudly with every step she takes.
The cool air below giving way to a still and searing heat
and she wonders
how long she’ll be able to stand it this time.

In the darkness,
the smell of hard pine fills her senses.
Her hand expertly finds the flimsy string
to the single unadorned bulb.
The light casts brightly around her
fading deeply into the far corners she dare not go.
She looks around quickly
as if to see something that shouldn’t be there.
Her breath releases.
No, she is alone.

Nothing’s changed since the last time she visited here.
Forgotten clothes
old books with lost words
and memories of times passed
unorderly scattered across the splintered floorboards.
She knows the contents of every torn and abandoned bag
every unmarked box
and where every nail reaches out to claim its thread of the cobweb.
Her eyes now adjusting to the disseminating light
she feels the heat beginning its test on her quickly dampening skin.

The green floral dress hung lazily out of its bag
the one she has come to know by touch alone.
Envisioning how it took her mother’s shape,
she lifts the precious memory from its resting place
holding it up to her own small form.
Tears well
sliding down her flushed cheeks
and as if a mirror stood before her
she sways,
enveloped in the warm recollections
of the life that no longer filled the dress.

It is here where she feels it most.
It is here where the unspoken conversation can continue.
It is here where she can dance with Love.

She returns the dress back to the timeless world
feeling lighter and heavier than ever before.
With sweat now flowing freely from her pores
she surrenders to the sweet oppressiveness of this place.
She pulls the light string once more,
blanketing the weighted treasures in blackness.
again,
alone with the dark.

She will always come back to this ascended place
offering each step
every breath
and all her tears.

For it is here where she feels it most.
It is here where the unspoken conversation can be had.
It is here where she can dance with Love.

In the depth of the night
in the dead silent- thinking about suicide as a pass time
Wondering if I was a killer in my past life,
a passing life, passing interests in unfamiliar colours
In amongst the ideals of some men, not so ideal for others
close mindsets, but ideas all distant cousins
In an irony cliche— all the racism one could give
words seeming much darker on criticizing a dark skin

Throwing a scissors in the sea
cutting my blues, and slicing a sharp mind's eye
But I'm still a little blind in my doubts for a future to see
Fortunes match the brave; misery paved in the ways
of yesterday's mistakes. Not as concrete to proudly say
I belong to the streets
Simply cos of a veranda setting; I'm sort of in between,
in between crying in reality, and being lost in dreams
in between tucking hope, or untidy faithfulness of a loose belt
I smelt the wettness of her eyes, a shattered mirror of pain I felt
ice in her knees; she buckled sometimes in love
A girl who told me her story- un glory, the unholy of feeding
a desire, quicken by how many times the flesh will starve

A little boy in the corner forced to be a man
cornered by unrealistic rules to a hustle and sketchy plans
"I don't know what I'm doing," he says to those who don't
understand. "You're not a man if not blown by a woman's
gagging words, to say you've got a fan," so said the always
abused man

Cycle of events
the wheel of misfortunes, and a tired cliche
But who actually listens anyway- we all like to
pretend we're okay. Just moving on with our days,
mundane experiences; Monday blues everyday slowly
becoming serious. Series of events, another episode
in the seasonal depression, sleeping restless, in the
oppressiveness, and my saddened aggressiveness.

Feeling as less —don't you realize we're
all a little sad. Life that has made you feeble;
we're all sometimes this sad people
Sad people, sad people, sad people

The gibbous moon hangs over the Earth,
death descending upon a dying reality.
A shovelful of ashes,
this dance of futility,
nothing left behind but fallen soot.

Dearest brother, we are at the last point,
it seems, and who would have expected
such a ridiculous finale,
this eschatological confrontation
with the black summit of existence?

O impotent little man,
in your melancholy selfishness,
how you distress me
with this great, surging silence,
the oppressiveness of solitude.

Despair is disease,
but I can no longer mourn you.
Your remorse is indulgent,
self-forgiving, superstitious.

The pain of relentless doom
in no way ennobles you;
your retreat into suffering
but a complicity in guilt.

Stretch forth your wretched head to
say the words you cannot say;
a contortion in the throat,
a choking on each syllable.

Do not be deceived.

Beyond all else
there is nothing more human,
than these last, few moments
of the searing white heat
of the God we cannot prove,
of the broken mirror image
of your imminent demise.

Passing beyond all morality
oozes the wound of your existence:
to decry the winnowing of meaning,
the destruction of freedom,
the end of everything.