Dit is die trane wat niemand sien nie
Die seer wat niemand voel nie
Dit is die koue gevoel in jou hart
wanneer jy van buite af inkyk *** almal lag
Dit is die eensaamheid op naweke
Die stilte wanneer jy skree
Dit is die afwesigheid van n warm hand
Die oorblyfsels van n gebroke sielsband
Dit is die spasies tussen jou vingers
Elkeen n herinnering van n tekortkoming
Dit is die koue winters alleen
Die somers spandeer onder skaduwee
Dit is die hinkering na "ek is lief vir jou" briefies
Die drome oor die "ek is trots op jou" soentjies
Dit is al die gebroke beloftes
Die "liefde met voorwaardes"
Dit is die idee van *** alles moet wees
Wat keer dat jy gelukkig is
Dit is die wonde wat brand wanneer jy dalk mag glimlag
Om jou te herinner van jou seer se mag
Dit is die donker aande sonder sterre
Jou dood stille foon op die moeilikste tye
Dit is die konstante bevraagteken van jou waarde
Die "gaan nie eers probeer" nie's
Omdat jy voel niemand sien jou raak
En skielik is gelukkig wees, n verbode taak
Maar dit is die leemte in my hart
Die swaarte krag van al die vrae
Die "Opsoek na die vermiste stuk van my legkaart"
Wat die hartste praat
Dit is die gewoonte om te voel jy misluk
Dit is die "minderwaardige" plakker in die plek van jou gesoekte legkaartstuk...

THE SMELL OF YOUR HAIR MAKES ME WANT TO VO
MIT BUT THEN AGAIN SO DOES EVERYTHING. IF I BRE
ATHE IN ANY MORE OF THIS FILTERED AIR MY BILE W
ILL COVER THE CARPET. AT TWO IN THE MORNING I W
ONDER IF THE PORTLY MAN WHO ORDERED A SALAD
THAT HE DIDN'T REALLY WANT AT MCDONALD'S COU
LD TELL THAT THE GIRL HE ASKED TO SUPERSIZE HIS F
RIES PERFECTLY RESEMBLED A TEACUP WITH A CRACK
JUST BIG ENOUGH TO LET YOUR PRETENTIOUS ******
G BLACK COFFEE SPILL THROUGH. SHE RAN HER HAN
D ACROSS THE STAR TATTOOS HIDDEN BEHIND HER EA
R BEFORE SHE HANDED HIM HIS CHANGE AND I WONDE
RED IF I COULD OFFER HER A CIGARETTE BEFORE THE GR
EY VAN THAT LOOKS LIKE CONCRETE COMES TO TAKE HER
BACK TO THE JAIL SHE RESIDES IN. MY SKIN IS TURNING
THE SAME COLOR GREY AS THAT VAN AND I AM SEEING
NEW VEINS IN MY ARM AND I AM A SLOUCHED WITHER
ING ENSEMBLE OF DECAY DESTINED TO DIE IN A POOL OF
***** AND BURIED IN THE VERY EARTH THAT KILLED ME

there are no words
for the way my ski
n electrifies when y
our smoke wraps ar
ound our bodies and
sends shivers down m
y spine because you a
re trickling your finge
rs down my ribs and s
ometimes i can not hel
p but think about how
blood felt trickling dow
n my wrists and by the
time you came around
i was so far gone that i
'm more than surprised
about how someone wh
ose smile is always six m
iles wide could love some
one who wants to be bur
ied six feet under and if i
lost the chance to tell you
that i love you, then i don
;t know where i would be
and if i make my bed in a
grave before you do i hop
e you never pick up the bo
ttle again and try to find s
olace because we both kno
w that anesthetics are neve
r any different from poison
s and if your nerve endings
remember my touch and y
our breath gets short but h
eavy when you think you j
ust got a text from me but
you remember that the te
xt will never come; i want y
ou to know that i love yo
u and that you can make it
through anything and if yo
u do just one thing in my r
emembrance then i want y
ou to never ******* drink
my taste away because no
matter how strong you se
em i still think that my p
assing will make you a lit
tle uneasy and a little diff
erent maybe and i wonde
r if you'll cry anywhere c
lose to as much as i used t
o cry on a nightly basis a
nd will you sneak out an
d walk down to the stop
sign where we exhaled a
nd inhaled smoke and we
held each other and ****
man when i laid on the as
phalt i still wished a car w
ould come speeding by e
ven though that's so ****
ed up and this isn't even a
poem it's just a ****** up
story but if you ever love
d me at all, you won't pi
ck up the bottle- you wo
n't take a shot even if it m
eans remembering the tr
igger.

Congratulations!
You are now the proud owner of a girl...
You have successfully made her into the mechanical, fun- loving, intelligent, perfect, only spoken when spoken to, gracefu, lovi, wonde, beau, bri, fa, a,
p
     e            
                r
                         f
                                  e  
                          ­                  c
                                                       t
daughter.

It’s beautiful. The rhythm. The instruments

blending to construct a uniform of posse-

ssing noises. The voices cascading

   together to create a melody, one

     quite similar to sweet dew on

       flowers in the bright, early

        morning. It fills you until

           you feel the wonde-

             rful notes within

             your very being.

           The tones dance a-

          round you until you

        are nothing but that. T-

      he different feels of each

   individual song are incredible.

They can either make you feel as

if anything is possible, as if there is

no greater sadness than your own,

as if you are the best thing in the w-

orld to someone, as if you are not

  who you are but who you alwa-

   ys wish to be, or as if even th-

     e most substantial disadva-

      ntages can never lift the

       brilliant veil of the warm,

          fuzzy happy you are

                  drunk on.

                   It’s as if

                    in that

                   one mi-

                 niscule m-

              oment, you a-

           re free of everyth-

       ing and nothing could

   possibly be anything oth-

  er than jubilant. These chor-

ds remain in your head and you

can change them on will like a radio.

They give you a needed distraction, a

relief from the pressure, an ungodly am-

ount of confidence, or even just something

to center yourself around. The patterns make that overbearing uncertainty

melt from your mind to puddles of woe on the ground. The alluring collections of each portion make

an enchanting thing that will forever be commemorated

in the minds of others.