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.the boy with sandy hair
has been watching you
with daisy eyes.
i hear the mourning doves
cooing for him,
and i hear his glistening
replies of black and white.
your kaleidoscope fingertips,
dripping like ink
from a brush
and you've been smearing it
until you can't breathe it
he called it the art of destruction.she had nice eyes,
the kind you liked to draw
with watercolor tears
and ink like the moon's
he had memorized
her midnight lashes,
the half-closed shutters
and memories locked away
behind a pupil,
and his pencil was the
were the specks in her
irises of emerald
everything she touched
turned into gold,
everything she touched
and rose anew
like budding flowers
after the blizzard.
could never do the same,
but he'd give those eyes away
for a dime apiece,
ignoring the fact
that ebony charcoal
and half-dried acrylics
were all that she would
were about as predictable
as the quicksilver clock
on our kitchen wall.
you were a steady drumbeat
in the soundtrack of our life
and i was the bass guitar,
when the monotony succeeded
in sawing away at you,
bringing you back from simplicity
with the intricate vibrations
in my nylon strings.
you taped pictures, words
on your ceiling
and fell asleep
staring at them like stars
to the sound of artificial rain.
in the morning,
you woke up to find them
scattered on your warm body
and took them
as messages from the universe.
you were the vanilla scent
that wafted through the house
on wintry days,
and sending me on edge
i was the cold.
i kept you
from melting at the seams,
burning into ash,
bursting into flames
and destroying everything in your wake
but i am still nothing more
than the polar opposite
of your essence.
i am only
a lack of warmth,
and you never wanted
the cold's calculated
The Same Smoke that You'll InhaleDay 12
I would travel the miles of dreams
and the depth to the bottom of your eyes
if only you'd turn a deaf ear to these screams.
I need you to be there when it all dies.
I stand here, half a juxtaposition
with the invisible truths in each of my lies.
I stand here for you, I stand in contrition
for my sing(e)ing ashes of my fire long burned out,
and I know that I'm anything but a musician.
You know exactly what this is about;
my everything is laying in a puddle before me,
disintegrated by limitless, ruthless, cruel doubt
And I need to ask if you can still see
the majestic, unbounded flames
that I used to so frighteningly be.
I suppose I can never be the same,
but nevertheless, I wish for your love,
for you to be the fuel for the wildfire I became.
I know you're the oxygen I was devoid of.
by the very thing
that used to set me free,
a lavender tint
settles over my fingers
as i close my eyes
(you were never in bloom,
but maybe that's better
than wilting away.)
What if paper knew
the words we carved into it
with our heavy hands?
What if pens recalled
their etched words and wasted ink?
I think they'd be proud.
Dreams of Silver LavenderDay 24
All she wants is to breathe
the scent of wafting lavender,
engulfing her as she falls
into the silver
of her newly-painted nails;
into her reflection in the water.
But there is no water,
barely a reason for her to breathe.
She watches the brush dye her nail
a sweet lavender,
contrasting her ring's bright silver.
She knows it's into vanity, she'll fall.
And she does fall-
not into emptiness's icy water
reflected in her eyes' dull silver.
She falls as she steadily breathes
into sleep. She inhales lavender
and watches the light reflect off her nails.
She sees droplets bead on her nails,
glimmering as they fall
onto the petals of her lovely lavenders,
frosty with icy waters.
In, she breathes
and out, a misty silver.
Thirty pieces of silver,
she thinks, biting at her nails,
not stopping even once to breathe.
She watches them fall
and scatter on the ground like rainwater,
and she can smell sandalwood and a vague lavender.
One sprig of fresh lavender,
two rings of finest silver,
He Says. (Did Anything Else Ever Matter?)Day 13
He's says that it'll be okay,
And I'm pretty sure he's lying.
He and his words have always been sugarcoated,
But now is not the time.
The more I write about ash and ink,
The more he tells me about how
All I'll ever be is cigarette smoke, yet
He says that it'll be okay?
He says that I'm a beautiful wreck;
A flame that's more of an ember than a fire,
But that has just enough oxygen to stay alight.
And I'm pretty sure he's lying.
He says that poets are just like icicles,
And he tells me how he tried to touch me
But I fell from the edge and shattered.
He and his words have always been sugarcoated.
I'd like to say something here:
I'd like to say that I can't be smoke and ice,
And that I've never been anything but air.
But now is not the time.
KidsWe're just kids, that grew up too fast.
Due to expectations and isolations.
Adaptations, illustrations, separations.
It's not how it used to be.
I wonder will it last?
One words replies,
Now it's lies, cries, guys and skinny thighs.
Oh I despise, but I'll advise,
Do not trust a soul.
Blasting music in our ears,
Hiding from the sneers and leers,
They're picking on the queers.
Aren't they our peers?
Alone, and other feelings I've never known.
Upgrade your phone.
Dye your hair a darker tone.
Wear cologne and dig the drone.
Welcome to the cool zone.
Break and clatter.
"I'm fine." or "it doesn't matter."
Am I flatter or fatter?
Definitely the latter.
Watch my heart shatter,
And the pieces scatter.
Cause we're just kids, who grew up too fast.
Due to expirations and deprivations.
Situations, innovations, realizations.
It's not like it used to be.
Now we're an outcast.
Poets and ParadoxesTo be a poet is an endless paradox,
A constant contradiction of your thoughts
And division of your soul.
Paper cuts will scar your skin,
And fill your ink well up with blood
So you have no choice but to write from your heart.
It means you cry and lie
And lay awake each night
Thinking of new ways and new words
To hurt you and heal you all at once.
It makes it so that the beat of the stanzas
Is a heartbeat,
Hammering in time with your own
And speaking to you about every moment
That you have been compelled to pen.
It means breaking yourself apart
Into ink and sharp shards
Small enough not to cut anyone
And maybe those foolish and wonderful enough
To try piecing you together.
Maths Is A MurdererMurder me slowly with
Infinite math equations;
The fear of many numbers
Taunts my timid eyes, panic
Emphasized by sweaty palms.
Nothing is more worse than
Solving difficult problems.
LoveWe say we love flowers
And their sweet aroma
Yet we can spend hours
Just picking them up
We ask for their thoughts
As we pick at their petals
About if he loves me
Or he loves me not
And yet we still wonder
Why nobody trusts
When "I love you" is muttered
But have we forgot?
We kill what we love.
#34Tell me darling are you alright
Grasping hands and holding tight
I can't quite squeeze the sounds out
Purple chipping front door paint
back yard upside down buried saint
Boxes piled up and faces blank
Trucks pull up and commands exchange
how far away can our hearts range
the dreamy future has reached an end
glass topped tables have photos removed
fearful words have now been proved
you always said I worried for nothing
Washing up a single plate
plastic, so it's not smashed in hate
single setting is too sad to see...
You always said you'd only love me
I said early on to not work into the night
and now our lives are too sorry a sight
in this present with no future to get to
Your cover was blown as you pulled away
There were no lies we could bother to say
it's all over and done and the rings are returned
Pack up the single setting and ride to the mountains
it's time to get away from these tears
So drive all night up into the snowy fields
And you find yourself standing with a box in that fi
This mask i wear.
This mask i wear for you.
This act i put.
This act i put on for you.
Why do i do this for you, its not for me....It who you want me to be
Personal InterrogationWhere is the line between love and obsession?
What is the difference between ignorance and oppression?
Is there such as too much affection?
As each person we are, can there be perfection?
When in our longing escape we from depression?
How to expunge ourselves of subconscious connection?
Milk and BloodWe are terrified monsters and helpless gods.
To look in the mirror and gaze upon no beauty,
to walk upon silk and thistles
is the weakness of beasts of irony;
they wander through the labyrinth
slipping on pools of milk and blood,
remembering only the burning in their throats
Down those same throats they pour tar
silencing their own voice.
Why must we sow salt in our own soil
and complain of poor harvest?
Do they not think, acting on every fucking impulse?
Because we are fools.
Because we are human.
I love you
I extend my hand towards you,
tears running down my face.
I run as fast as I can,
but you are always out of my reach.
Just one last touch.
Just one last hug.
Just one last I love you.
Suddenly, you are gone.
In the blink of an eye, you are gone.
I collapse on my knees.
Crying to the heavens above...
Why couldn't I say I love you...
one last time...
before you were gone forever...
anything will do tonight.with heavy eyes
and abject sighs,
a frosty life lost-
it has cost you
but anything will do
with laughter dying out
and fading out of sight,
you close your eyes and listen-
get ready to ignite your mind,
it's all alright
it's all alright
so take your sorry soul
and lost control,
tumbling without a care
a debonair sigh,
a swift goodbye,
moved on past the
black and white
of my starlight.
it's all alright.
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