The taste of your tongue lingers on me
A taste of honey encrusted in gold
It shines and sparkles even in the dead of the night
Our muffled voices echo in these four walls

The room smelled of animal musk
A mix of heaven and sugar combined
Your taste supressed the heavenly bodies' light
and gave me light brighter than Sun.

.english colonialism used to be passive-aggressive, english post-colonialism is a strange dynamic of former colonial nations playing the endgame of colonialism with non-affiliated nations of the british empire (affiliated by trade anyway, although not based upon origins of the ruling elite's extending arm), there's a hot topic in england between the irish and the polish, the irish are provoking the polish into racism so someone else can look smug with a pakistani friend on the london tube.

you know the amount of pain i see writing my father's
invoices of manual labour with the irish *****
apparently running
the show protecting northern
irish outputs of poetry and cigarette smuggling -
keeping us migrants "in check"?
god the loathing,
i try to improvise each invoice
with an excess knowledge
of the english tongue to break through,
but my sole considering comforter
is still death,
**** this *******, i rather die
than see my father's eyes eye me
hurtful hopeful of seeing my "bright new life"
when i was nearly murdered by
an egyptian school-friend / childhood friend
and later told: boy you better pretend you're
mad... boy my ***, your father is just
an x-ray technician... go back
to the northern africa of your
pretending to be a semite and build
another pyramid... *******, **** all of this,
days of casual pretentious squeaky clean
non-offensive poetry are over...
gentlemen - let's broaden our minds... swear a little
take up oaths with truth...
we were born to down a pint of concrete before
ireland was born, rushing out of pubs
when the call was made: concrete has arrived!
run, run run run! break legs and whatnot,
because in an irish pub talking to a homeless
person in akimbo giving him a cigarette
is cause for argument with an irish girl
trying to get, familiar;
unlike the sword, a stick has two ends...
you can smack someone with it,
but then someone can rebel and grasp the same
stick and smack you with it, for a suckling
taste of a kiss in memory of reprimanding manners.

- and i do remember the good stuff coming
out of h'america...
    i once owned a copy of blue valentine
by tom waits on c.d.: scratched that record
from over-playing it...
found a vinyl copy in the shop today...
splashed out a staggering £20 on it...
lucky for me the mp3 record comes free...
     £20 is a lot?
       well... better that £20 which played
in the background as i finished off decorating
the kitchen...
   rage 2 deluxe edition for ps4 -
      £44.99... so sure... i splashed out...
          thank god i'm not a gamer...
with games it's like with movies...
   notably? vikings season 1...
     i thought i could watch it a second time...
couldn't...
   a bit of a hit and miss...
    with games and movies...
      when the narrative gets exhausted...
and you're still honing in on the narrative
whether a passive spectstor or the role player
in the game...
but investing in an album?
       background background...
and an almost infinite array of the comeos
against the record...
   one cameo decorating a kitchen
another cameo finishing the day off with
some cider on a windowsill...
   but once upon: that's what h'america was
about... united we stand,
divided we fall... blah blah...
           and it looks like that right now...
the cultural export zenith peaked and it isn't
coming back...
   not for a while at least...
now we only look at not the united
         but the balkanized states of europe...
the states pulling at each other:
where once there was a cohesive collective
      export of pure cancan h'americana...
tom waits' blue valentine...
                          now i'll am getting
"culturally" is a bunch of vlogger content...
export of problems,
existential qualms without support on
existential pillars from continental thought
of 20th century europe...
   19th century doesn't count:
   not even nietzsche does: but kierkegaard
doesn't.

what are those lyrics from that vomito *****
song enemy of the state?
we shall send you, in ever increasing number:
ships, planes, tanks, guns: that is your purpose
and, our pledge... (1941 state of the union speech
sample)

most americans are not aware that soon
the primary export of our national economy
won't be cars, or food, or microwaves.
instead we'll be exporting death.
instead will be exporting death.

   perhaps, once upon a time...
now the export is quiet different,
   at its cultural zenith of exported values...
it would seem h'america choked on
a bitter pill... h'america no longer provides
the sort of culture worth exporting,
notably in cinema in music...
                               in literature...

the behemoth lost all of its juggernaut
momentum... and stumbled into rehashing old
ideas... it's not plagiarizm as such:
more a plagiarizm ex per se...

norman davies: god's playground -
   1795 to the present:

the Belweder is a palace in Warsaw...
(belvedere: a beautiful view)
constructed in 1660 -
  the White House in Washington D.C.
constructed in circa 1796...
by god, what a similarity!

   polish emigration to the u.s.a.:
in social terms their educational and communal
organizations are less effective than those of
the ukranians,
   in political terms their problems
command less notice than those of the blacks,
chicans or amerindians...
in the vicious world of the american ethnic jungle,
the 'stupid and ignorant Pole' is a standard
stereotype... once the noble lord...
reasons no doubt exist: like the irish and
the sicilians... the greatest influx came from
Galicia containing a large number of
the 'wretched refuse': people so oppressed
by poverty and near-starvation:
supressed linguistically, religiously...
the instinct of mere survival...
accepted the most degrading forms of employment...
exploitation: 'industrial *******'...
they were the gangers of the great american
railway age...
a canadian textbook can be cited
(j. s. wordsworth, strangers within our gates,
toronto 1972):
'it is hard to think of the people of this
nationality other than in that vague class of
undesirable citizens' -
   very much like to today:
   to think of canadians being a people
beloning to the making of mankind -
    without the canadian concept of mankind
being: peoplekind...
even woodrow wilson (then) prof. at prince-ton
deemed the Poles to be 'inferior'.

- but who was to ever to keep grudges...
grand torino - the movie, starring and directed
by clint eastie-boy-sparking-wood...
waldermar kowalski... dumb pollack...
why do poles no integrate within a community
bias as such?
                   the proverb:
if you want to succeed within a framework
of immigration: steer away from your
fellow countrymen...

                     almost all other cultures that
come, but the host's nitty-picky:
oh look at our asian labradors...
why can't you lick our ***** like they can?
etc. one example out of the many...
some people, i guess: prefer to be in
the background...
post-colonial powers need tokens...
akin to a sadiq khan:
papa was an immigrant bus-driver -
quick step up from daddy being a bus driver
to the position of mayor of london...
browny points!

the english are smug like this:
you hear even today -
WE WON'T BE SORRY FOR OUR
FATHER'S AND FOREFATHER'S SINS...
not for our colonial past...
they say that consciously -
but subconsciously they are scoring
brownie points...
        i can't say they're doing this
unconsciously: since if they were:
there would be a unanimous concensus
and no: "diversity is our strength"
agenda...

             besides... you can't exactly
conquer an island...
the norman conquest of 1066? it wasn't really
a conquest: for a conquest to actually take
place you'd require the native population
to be displaced / replaced by the invading
force - akin to the saxon invasion...
'don't touch, their, women...
we don't breed with these people...
what sort of people would you think
that would breed? weak people... half people'
(king Cerdic from the film king arthur 2004)...
proof being?
when the normans invaded and "conquered"...
they simply replaced the ruling saxon elite...
hence? the domesday book...
the ruling elites were being replaced
and the new ruling elites wanted to have
an account of who they were going to rule...
it was less a conquest and more:
a change of guard... since...
            the locals were first investigated
and subsequently left to their own devices...
there was no conquest:
               as such...
                but you can get on with your
day-to-day life on an island with natural
fortifications (the ******* sea)...
and produce your little whizz-kids down
the years...
   but imagine being squeezed by:
prussia... russia, the ottomans,
                  the mongols...
                             the swedes...
                and subsequently by the austro-hungarians...
matka królów (the mother of kings),
i.e.: Elisabeth von Habsburg...

   in conclusion... oh to hell with the whole
"incel" label... you have to pay for something
in the end... why not skip the *******'s worth
of pleasantries: the dating masquerade
and not get into the nitty-gritty with a *******
in one smooth stroke of a count worth an hour?
no hard-on shyness that way...
no ****-teasing...
whatever is an erectile dysfunction outside
of the brothel... doesn't seem to bother
whittle wichy while in a brothel...
so go figure...
                and relating to the stories of incels...
hmm... maybe it's the fickle women...
last time i checked...
i picked up a thai bisexual in a park,
a random stranger...
                took her home,
some beer, some jazz...
                  ****** her in the garden...
        i don't even think it's the case of
"i can't get laid" with these incels...
     english women: nuns on the outside...
latex gimp suited **** black boot licking
*** fiends in the bedroom...
   the madonna-***** complex...
the only aspect of Freud that resonates with me...

you know what, never mind...
      i'm just happy i collect vinyls...
free mp3 copy to boot...
and instead of spending 40+ quid on a game
that will become exhausted after one sitting /
completion (these are not arcade games,
nor are they the "free" new wave of games,
the ones where you play "superior"
opponents with a handicap -
since you didn't pay any in-game updates,
patience is a virtue,
   and someone people invest real money
into these games, but are still **** at them,
plus, these new wave games never really end...
i'll be dead and i won't be able to finish them,
added bonus? there's no NPC dimension
to them, added strategy: with a complete loss
of narrative / story-telling, genius!)
plus... how much does a vinyl player cost?
you can get one for under 70 quid...
sometimes vinyl bargains: under a tenner...
this one though, for 20 quid...
1 vinyl worth 20 quid once every two months?
oh yeah... i really splashed out on this one!

woman is a grand idea though...
    there is so much of woman i would be able
to love, if only the practicality of woman
wouldn't be associated...
alas: reality bites...
                       regrets...
                                  aged 33 and i feel as if...
i have managed a good enough sample
where both sexes can coexist within the confines
of me entertaining them:
as if they were to never meet and "preserve"
the "fate" of "humanity"...
      i'm pretty sure there are plenty of people
who have been bullied into this trap
associated with the otherwise "intelligent"
dodo mentality...
                          besides, i'm about to find out,
whether or not, they sell liter bottles of whiskey...
using my braille tally:

            ⠁ ⠃ ⠇ ⠧ ⠷ (⠿)
            1  2  3   4  5  (6)
             a  b  l   v  à  (é)

                        from what i drank yesterday
for that lullaby... i'm starting to supect that:
what they label as a liter... is actually more -

    if after ⠷⠻ ⠷⠻ (i.e. 50ml  20x) i'm not left
with an empty bottle... well then i'm not left
with an empty bottle.

Cooking up a blizzard.
Lost and unguided tendrils of space hold me captive,
the trebles of your heart beating
leads me back to my my Home.
That infinite gaze of yours into my dilapidated eyes,
is like a portal to you to look into my soul.
You blanket all my darkness
With your semi-pixie cut.
You’re my tree of knowledge
I bask in it’s shade.
Powdered Sugar coating on cupcakes.
Your silk armour protects your vulnerability,
My sincere apologies to all the arrows that gaped through.
Cover me under your angel wings,
Dab away my streaming reservoirs and replace them
with pollen and sweet nectar.
Your wishbone sacramental daydreams and dreams.
I feel so lost without you.
Bandage my old wounds with your tender hands,
Kiss me with your lush lips
sending jolts of star dust upstream,
within my veins dancing with yours palpitating feet.
My shot of euphoria and bleeding antidote.
My poetry.
You, Kalon.
Let’s raise a toast to your
beauté remarquable éternel, mon soleil
your free spirit,
your beauty of a ghost,
your heart racing with joy,
your heart steaming up with reticent sadness,
build up anger that come crashing down
like a typhoon detaching from the human perspecta.
I miss you.
Your emotional mess and literal mess,
I’m your magic broom.
You, my inspiration.
You, my groove.
You, my you.
You. My everyone and everything.
You’re fun filled supressed omnipresent electric feel.
You, The only Solis in my galaxy.
I love you.
Sharing your grandoise orangy tinge yellow light.
Bottling up a few star
in a bottle of red wine,
For her Luna.
Solis is 21 a (000,000,000) today.
**You’re irreplacable.

I could fall to the ground and forget that it hurts
When I see them smile, I know the pain that is supressed.
Drowning beneath a shadow of endless regrets,
What they are, where they come from, a nation begets.

Hiding behind a veil of corruption,
Unknowingly had them intercede.
Rising smoke, from a burning soul,
Hear their cries, they hide, yet plead.

How can you pass them, not notice their tears and agony?
Is your life that beautiful, you can't stop and extend a hand?
Building cities, empires, and fools, you complain!
Why, the minute you let your feet touch the ground,
You'll see what the world looks like,
Behind that mask of glittering facade.

It has not pounced yet
but i am afraid
i think it feeds
every now and then
or then just feeds
as i look away
and i am afraid

some time in conversation
or glances of passion
from table of emotions
i think it feeds
and i am afraid
i have not seen it
or felt it growl and paw
but its eerie presence
in my very essence
and i am afraid

afraid to look in
afraid to face my sin
afraid to light the fire
hidden, it grows in desire
open and let me free
says amidst me
on serene life's stage
the caged beast of rage.

Her eyes
Were always
Full of mischief
They sparkled with delight,
And always had
That special glint in them.

But if you looked closely enough
You would see
Swollen rims
From crying herself to sleep.
That sparkle
You'd think you knew so well
Was merely a mask
For the true dullness
And lack of hope
Within.

And perhaps
If you looked longed enough
You would see
The very beginnings
Of a supressed tear.

If only
I realised what was going on
In her eyes
Before it was too late.

Stretch me out and count me like clouds
Say she is vapour
Venom, velvet and vermouth
With hair of hazelnut rapture
Clutch the moments, clutch the moonbeams
Clutch the stretched out skies of cloud and mustard gas sunset
Sing she is a child of trauma
Supressed in the name of breathing
Violence in the name of skin
And she is venom, velvet and vermouth
She was born to pink salt lakes in the low country
With ruby pomegranate eyes
And hair of hazelnut rapture
Girl with the soul of a thousand pilgrim journeys
Girl with the soul of a blackberry bush
Girl with the soul of olive trees and sheep meat and oven bread in the fire country
Human smiles
And other dark things of value
She lies like velvet
She lies in the name of supressing traumas
In the name of breathing
She bleeds like a billion stars bleed vapour
She is venom and vermouth
With hair of hazelnut rapture
She is the sum of a thousand pilgrim journeys
The prayer of holy rivers in the canyon country
The smoke of incense burned by sages
The scars of bodies burned by crusaders in mustard gas chambers
Goddess of Nuclear energies
Red-eyed like ruby pomegranates
Like the dewy cauldron of morning
When tenuous steps lead bodies down the path of executionary revolution
To boarders, frontiers, walls of white-skin scar tissue
Sing songs of Babylon in the free country
Clutch the moments
Clutch your breaths and hold them in broken palms
Clutch the tides and teach them
Breach your rib-cage, unstitch and return the borrowed bones
Melt the metaphoric thrones
Breathe backwards in the name of unsupressing traumas
In the name of truth
Stretch me out and count me like clouds
Girl of angel-breath ambition
Soul of blackberry bush and smile of splintered terracotta tile
Sing your songs
Say she is vapour

Within the silence of violence
            we are collecting our words,
that fall like tears that never reach  
         a point where there meant
                                            to mean something.


But with every emotion that collects
             only every silent voice.
   They scream within the void of nothingness,
as no one listens to the bombs caressing upon us.

Within every collection that falls on every
                            restrained voice that is void less.
          Beneath the rubble, of those who's blind anger
falters against those they have never vocalized words.

"But still tears of pain cry downwards.
             "silencing all with there silent voice of discontent.

Someone asked me
About how old I am today

He proceeded to tell me
That next year I'll be a year older

I supressed the tears
And gave a pretentious laugh

I couldn't imagine next year
Being alive for another year

Overcast and gloom
Completely colorless
In utter helplessness
Suffocated in clouds of black
Nights I lay restless
Days I feel reckless
I wish I could go back
To when smiles were genuine
To when yellows and pinks
Supressed blues and greys
An internal storm is stirring
From darkness and dolour
Cheers to the day I see colour

Clumped claws
of supressed dirt
reach from
sunken ships
filled to the
brim with swollen
tongues and
bulging
with the bubbling breath
of voices drowned
in death
clinging to my
every step;
soiled bubble gum,
like mosquito bites on
my scalp..

They itch

Melancholy;
Melt in lands
Unholy
In an abyss of

Harm supressed;
Between two palms pressed
Together.
Remind us we are

Desolate;
Descending to a
Solitary fate
Where days

Gloomy;
Glue me
To my memories
Cold cruelty and

Shame;
An attempt at shadowing
The untamed.

I'm so confused,
Like a ticking bomb,
I need to be defused

My feelings are jared up
Mixed emotions --
I do not know where to start

Met you in my worst,
And you stayed.
And that made it even worst

You make me feel less cynical,
Clearer than crystal,
Every move now is critical

What magic do you posses?
With one look everything is supressed,
Smile and the sleepless world is at rest

I want you,
I need you
But I can never have you.

a little bit of sparkle
a little dab of something
a scent to match your every mood

unable to remain motionless
fiddling with a sense of helplessness

to correct past past mistakes would be like re-writing a book
but theres no regret, only moving forward

nights full of possibilty
full of adventure
intrigue at every corner
i know that look, i get it

there is a need for me to move forward with you
but my feet keep dragging
and secretly,
ever so secretly
your heart rips the more you move forward
almost in half

it shall be lost soon
then you will be truly stuck.

envy on both sides
respect comes with comfort
this secret understanding
not so secret since we are both in it

some secrets are meant to remain secrets
some supressed memories are meant to be shared
but only between us
only us.

Is this how it feels?
Depression?
To feel empty and hollow inside,
Not caring about anything?
To want to cry every second of the day?
I feel fat.
Unwanted.
Emotional.
I am self-concious and depressed.
I just wish I knew how to help myself.
This is a hurt that can only be supressed by icecream.
Ben & Jerry's come save me.

Flawed eventless, the muck to the mire
To the river crimson with lustful haze.
Supressed desire flows like light, rapture to the gaze.
Feverd, clamy, tossing, turning
Lying wrestless on the floor.
Sarrow slips, through the cracks,
to come smashing through the door.

Famin parched, the scream to the cry,
to the path trampled in fits of rage.
Unrelenting fire, burns like ice, denile in a cage.
Calm, relaxed, watching, breathing,
Standing idle at the sash.
Anguish waits at beck and call
to come crashing  through the glass.

Hidden in a seamless world of delight and joy and glee
A fractured cloud of misery waits
to have its cake and thee,
to reval as it sulks with company.
Ever growing spawned by fear, deathly silent in its' plea
Eating away at the sinews of faith,
dispair awaits its' time to flea.

Akin to death, friend to evil, slient screaming in its' vain
Dissolving with trust the passion of the lust
Envy plies to its bain.
Passion and fire, burning desire, these monsters are not the same.
All too familiar, confusing just the same, betrayed by flesh.
What is there cannot be had, for surely this is no game.

hey mom, lately I haven't been okay
don't you see as you look me in the eye everyday?
the circles under my eyes are a little too deep
although nowadays all that I do is sleep

mom, last month, someone at school tried suicide
downing a bottle of paracetamol as he cried
I wanted to tell you about him, 'cause now he's dead,
but I remembered some of the things that you said

when the other day you were at the drug store
you heard someone overdosed on paracetamol
you laughed then you said, "why hold back at all?
why not drink poison? that'll work for sure!"

mom, I looked it up, it only takes fifteen tablets
fifteen of paracetamol and it'll send me straight to a casket
mom, what if I were that overdosing teen?
if I take only fourteen, would you tell me the same thing?

mom, I've been starving myself - I hardly eat
I don't know how I'm still managing on my feet
that's fine anyway, you told me I should go on a diet
so go on and tell me that I'm fat, I'll just keep quiet

hey mom, my arms are lined up with slits
but you're worried about if my clothes still fit
so I'll keep my mouth shut, I won't make things bigger
maybe if I tell my friends I'll feel a little better

mom, everyone keeps telling me I'm depressed
that I've got all these emotions inside me supressed
I only listen to you, mom, and I ignore the rest
after all, doesn't the saying go "mother knows best"?

mom, if I wanted to die, what would you do?
'cause if I tell you, I feel like you'd just say, "me, too!"
don't worry, mom, if I'm suddenly gone one day
I've learned to hate myself because of you anyway

mom, everyday is becoming a little too tough
I'm just holding on 'til I can cut deep enough
maybe it would be a nice surprise for me and you
if killing myself is something I finally do.

One day
He Will stop loving me
The looks of love
Will turn to annoyance
My laugh will cause a grimace

My presence echoing
Off the dismal decayed corridors
I have not prepared
The egg in my chest for this

I've  never known how to

I've tried

But it's been like a lighting bug
That flew too far out of my reach
But at least it still has a light
I haven't broken the cement around the habits we've made

Tonight I've wondered if I should
Fingers
Crooking
With holding a last text
To a completely different person

Unsteady heart beats
I thought
For a second
That I had lost that familiar friend

Pallid

Gray

A knowing smile

Here I lay
Lay me down to sleep

We stay awhile
Staring at each other
Nerve endings tingling
Through our brushed finger tips

A small smile
I haven't forgotten
This feeling after all
It hasn't forgotten

A small bloom
Forms on  lips
As quick as it appeared
It's gone with another tear

Well Benny just bought some F-35's,
so he can hit Iran with no regrets.
He knows that Rupert will help him
and FOX will make sure the truth is supressed.

B-b-b-Benny and the Jets.

When Iran hits back then they'll spin the facts,
say the attack was unprovoked.
Benny thinks he's so slick,
but he's making mistakes
he might be the next one to get smoked.

B-b-b-Benny and the Jets.

He's got 400 Nukes,
chemical weapons too,
but you won't read that in a magazine, no, no.

B-b-b-Benny and the Jets.

Beyond the trees in the clearing stood courage unclothed; always the preferred attire. Its gender, female; hence I will refer to it here as she.
 
Such femininity supressed in the webbed corners of masculine satire. To know it is to have it, to have it is to use it. Of course she recognises fear hiding in the wind that bends the trees–she too, is afraid.
 
She stands at the water’s edge, stoops to see she has no reflection, only blue sky staring back with a whisper, “Where there is no reflection there is courage.”
 
She exists in the space it takes to step from this place to the next. Courage will guide you when there is no water and if you get lost, look up,
—She is there too.

that place…
that place where you..don't…know
whats right or whats wrong
that place where you just are
not quite yourself; yet not estranged
by a strangeness completely
that funk that is what this is

do I feel extra or not quite
is this excess or insufficiency
Do i jump into action abounding
with love or stay put
for fear of the funk that follows
quirky tendencies or supressed emotion?
stirring. twisting. explosion

of thoughts of none
but a barren wasteland that
slowly crawls through the excessive
chatter that fills me to the brim.

is it grim? or a beautiful bounty of
raw, ******, toils of the soul

blessed, or cursed
I Am This Place.

And you wonder why blood was spilt
And about the wars that have killed
There's things in life you can't accept
You would fight till you die
Than stand a day in its mess

And you wonder why blood was spilt
And about the wars that have killed

Freedom has a high price
And it's not given
It's taken by the oppressed

And you dont have to look far
At the world's most horrific tragedies
Look at your own anxieties

When you act like your living
But every vain in your body
Is shivering.

Cause you're supressed by capitalism
Working day and night
And your opinion is not for the giving.

Nor are you allowed to be sad
Nor are you allowed to be mad
This is how life is, they tell you
This is how life is, they convience you
Don't be a woss
They tell you
Be strong by following me
While I follow what they want me to be
And they follow what they were taught to be
By people who followed their own misery
Thinking this is how life should be

You don't wonder anymore
When you have tasted it
The depression the pain and the downgradment
It drives you insane

You don't wonder
Why the blood was spilt
And about the wars that have killed

Cause freedom has a high price
And it's not given
Its demanded by the oppressed

So, are you up for the battle
Or your ganna shut up, and cry every night?
Down your pills ?
Roll a blunt ?
Down that drink ?
Then go numb ?
And go with the cattle ?

fragile
violet
purple and grey

listening
aqua
fusia and green

confused
yellow
brown and blue

music
loud
charging and sleeping

guilty
crying
supressed and depressed

I am not this girl
all over again
sprawled passed out
on her bathroom floor

Got tired of pretending that this worn pillow
could ever be the soft hollow of your shoulder
Stumbled over to the mirror to see how much life has faded
and the face staring back agrees with everything you said

A muted tongue drained from every word said to you
"I love you, why won't you look at me?"
Supressed into silence, and belittled into guilt,
"The little gifts in life are not for all to enjoy."

we were emaciated; ruined  
much like the twisted silence at the foot of your bed
a hollow battle field where our hearts would lay
and in nooks of tangled legs and distraught blankets
our secrets would hide

then at night fall they would dissapate
into the cage we called a home,
to poison the atmosphere already swollen
with ambigious thoughts and supressed dreams
  
we wait for rain
and we wait for the sun
but never reach into the atmosphere

so like our secrets we lay dormant
in our monotonous routines
and our open eyed sleep

Tiptoe.
       Very slow.
                Shoulders slumped.
                            Head low.
                                      An awful resemblance
                                                   to the surroundings;
                                      Tired, beaten, voiceless walls
                           doors slammed shut,
                A forced close
        To my emotions -
                       Supressed
                                Depressed.
            ­                              I'm stressed.
                                                  I'm tired -
                                                         I'm a mess.*
                                                          ­                                           Sorry.

Perforated with undertones of faded atmosphere
of a time now past. The walls were echoes of festering
residual voice that never died just staining the drapes
that hang in tatters of the dismal walls.

"We are the flowers buried in a garden of emptiness,

She sits there in a empty room, vacantly staring at
an unoccupied picture frame. She is laughing at
nothing but the tears that are falling from her wrists,
the stone tastes every speck of life and hungers for more.

"Hear the murmurs that speak from closed mouths,

This is a repetition of all that lingers in this place, for
when day breaks there is just stains of stories that never
show themselves in the light of day. When night gifts
this empty place the souls of lingering light the windows.

"Walls hold the breath that never escaped there mouths,

Smirking from the window a figure gifts views of what
seems like happiness whispering on the window pane.
So tired of the supressed motions that lingers here,
A gentle breeze ushers the swinging of the hangman here.

"Never conveying words he just took the first step into nothingness,

A castle of forgotten memories that tear upon the surroundings
when light fades into whispers. Memories keep each other
tormented feeding each other in entombed fears.
This citadel has empty picture frames that tell stories unseen.

Hello,
This act is about to begin,
I demand absolute silence.
Silence,
Isn't it beautiful.
Let me tell you about dreams,
Let me tell you about ambition,
Do your dreams haunt your dreams?
Have you ever questioned the world,
Have you ever questioned what they taught you?
Have you ever questioned existence.
I tried and I was shut down,
So here I am,
I have no questions,
So I'm asking for yours.
Let me tell you about freedom,
She is beautiful,
Brunette, green eyes,
She is perfect.
I questioned her and she walked away.
Too many whys she said.
Why did you walk away?
Nobody will ever answer that.
My words have been supressed,
They've been hidden,
But it's been too long.
Too long have I stayed locked up,
My mind struggles to be free.
Your chains won't hold me too long,
I'll escape,
And I'll question again.
A new era of people who think,
Of people who ask will be born,
Your power over us will slowly die,
The light on your staff will grow dim.
And all that will be left,
Is the silence.
Silence.
So beautiful.

Let's get out the rawness of life.
Expose emotions long supressed.
Talk about lonliness like the shadow's
My only compay.
Living without the only one.
Pain's a good theme.
Not solitude pain, or desperation anxiety;
The pain that poisons all systems,
Biological and Metaphysical.
To think nothing else
Beyond this immediate moment
Has been proven:
Abysmal philosophy.
Corruptable theology.
Contemptable hypocrisy.
In light of all this,
Nothing matters more than
The truth, and the search.
Tedious, numbing,
Truth.
Now that's raw.
And real.

She was tragically sad in a way that I was but couldnt afford to have tattooed on me because im african and no one has time for internal misery when there are kids with flies on the look out for something to unempty their bellies, you know stuff you see on telly  
She had blond curly hair and we had the mutal understanding that bus rides were where we went to check on our selves, see how well we had supressed the demons for that day or week or past ten years
When I was going through my episodes I'd reinvent myself by establishing a new laugh
"Does this make me sound happier"
She would decide she was moving to india but never really left the university or ended up in brixton
Thats heres india if you cant afford the real thing
We would go for months without speaking and she would show up At my door with dark brown tresses dyed to conseal the misfortunes, unrequited loves and abortions
And I would put together the potions to help us through. No bus rides. just camomile teas and rouge lipsticks  
Sit at cafe rouge and pretend to be happy old ladies meeting to exchange photographs of our grandchildren

You know those tears I so often shed?
They are but beads of so many emotions yet also the absence of such
My eyes leak until they are tired
You think these tears make me weak
That I am ruined
Yet I weep for I am tortured
I weep for I am grateful
I weep for I know not how to live without such intensity
I weep for those I cannot help
I weep for those who lost the battle I continue to fight
I weep for the ones I love and the love I won when I met him
I weep to cleanse my body of all evil
But mostly I weep to remind myself that I am still alive
My heart beats even when it is hurting
My soul sings louder to compensate for the times it has been crushed
For it wishes to be heard above the chorus of supressed hopes and dreams
The fear has made me a coward, you say
But no, I persevere
Despite the trepidation you fail to understand, I remain
To weep and be heard weeping is strength like no other
To be vulnerable in the face of judgement
In the presence of such paralysing fear that holds you hostage and mercilessly lingers
Is to be an injured soldier in the war that is life
But to never surrender