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Dead Dreams IIAn emptiness that eats
Nothing is left for the fruitfulness of our bonds
Together we hold still
But apart we break into shattered pieces of our pasts.
Why is an onslaught of misdemeanored causes.
No one's will is enough to wretch us free
Forsaken and tainted we stand
Our fingers interlocked in a dance of subtlety
Dead Dreams ITick tick tick goes the bomb
Dead dead dead goes its inhabitants.
Bye to our lives
Hello to our ends
Wishful thoughts mean more than air
But our breaths cannot grasp our needs
Forever fallen here we land in our falls.
Death of My RitualPray, just pray a day once more
The faith of our father's will keep us dear.
A silence of love shall dream anew
As the pilgrimage of children laugh till dawn.
The words are meaningless if the letter is old
For the need of the ancients have come to pass.
Come of AgeThe dance of the abdominals ends in tragedy
As leaves of the foliage come to pass.
Come the end of constellations undone
And still see you not.
The mentions of entries are here to stay.
If only our hearts could be swayed that way.
Feet of fallen create the pyre
As the ashes of tears hold those truths.
My Weak TruthI can't save you
All of you out there
Can't become the chosen
Not even if I cared.
My faults may bury me
My fears bring on my death
And my heart threatens to pause
In a swift suicide
As my mind wraps itself in a twist.
The paper in my pocket
Stalling the truth that shall come.
The sleepless come welcomed
And the dawning forgotten
for shadows are remembered
And the light turned off.
I can't bring myself to care anymore
It keeps tearing me apart.
Lost SelfHere comes my memory
I lost it long ago
Locked within the raindrops
bleeding from the sky.
Broken came the pieces
dropped without regret
Screaming for the recognition
of the greedy blind.
Falling toward the center
shaping what can be
only to ignore it all
As the freedom fails to ring
inside my lifeless heart.
I Tell You NotPlace me in a corner
and leave me here to die
My suicidal trivia
has succumbed into my mind.
Unlike your washy process
I always get it right
Following through this nightmare
of justice served real cold
a wonderland of echoes
of a land forever grand
with an outdated legend
Bringing forth the lies.
cuz if I were to tell you
the truth of which I know
Then I'd have to kill you
So they can still ignore me
Upon this empty corner
of which I make my home.
Letter To Myself As YouHi…How Are You?
I'm…well I don't exist.
So I guess that means
I can't really say I'm fine.
It I did, I'm sure I would be.
Fine that is. Then again
Considering that I don't exist
Yet I'm here "talking" to you
Means I'm a figment of your
Imagination. That is…well that
Means…that you are indeed
Insane. I'm sorry, it must
Be hard for you to understand.
I'm sure if you check your pocket
You'll find that slip of paper I gave
You. You know which one.
The one to remind you that you are sane
While you're insane. Check I assure you
It's there. I lie not. You found it
Didn't you. Heh I knew you would.
After all your mind is gone. How
Else would I be able to place
That scrap of paper in your pocket?
I'm bored now. I find your lack of
A clear mind bothersome. Your denial
Suffocates me. After all you fell
Into society's open arms. What did
You expect to have happen to you?
To go there is to say farewell
to yourself. The you in your mind.
The one you who holds the door
And knows when to sc
Slumbering DoorwaysI do not think I shall find sleep tonight
It does not call upon my door this night
Not a single knock or turn of the knob
Of this sleep, I was surely robbed.
Begainst the malice of this deed
Just a single night's sleep is what I need
Yet mocked I am again this night
To forfeit my sleep untingled without fright.
My eyelids unweighed, too shallow to sink
For they continue to gaze unable to blink
Forever in my slumber shall be forgotten
As I lay in my bed unsettled & darkened
Listening to the whispers that call in my wake
I settle in this darkness of which I forsake
My lust for this dream of which cannot be
The day that the door comes knocking for me.
Change this lifeHiding in the shadows
Resisting in secrecy
Trying to find a way
To change this life of misery
The future is unknown
The past is to forget
The present is dull and boring
Is this what life has to offer?
I want to change
And I keep trying
Only to fail miserabily
Every single time
eight ways you've made me small1. I wish
this was for you.
2. my journal pages - the
brown one with all our monologues -
were jarred with hollow vows of
last poems of
letting you slip into a coma
of bad memories, watching you
fall to your death off
a cascading cliff of disease
and dis ease.
it was never
easy for me
3. there's a reason I ask
whether you're grey
(dark white, elusively black, in between)
or blue (behind the clouds, under wave-foam,
whateverthefuck runs through the back of my
palms); I'd rather have
than the arms
that once held you half-
heartedly. you had always been
my harmony and I
would have killed
to have been yours.
4. it could never have been just me, the way
it could never have been just
5. disasters are not beautiful,
but how is it that you
managed to make my inner linings
converge into bows
and explode into wings the very
night you decided to rebuild your walls
to a lower height?
6. I wish
diaryi thinned recall,
strangled memory until she screamed black
or blue, strung her source of voice along
the willowed incline of vein to wrist and down
let the curl thirstily imply
just how cut it is to pain in numbers:
one scar for extravagant wine dates, three
for the number of times we fucked crying,
eight for forgotten promises of ever after
i heard a sordid song in your tallied matchstick
bones, victorian in beauty & proper repression
of the bloody details like a bruise we push beneath
our hollow skin with dirty fingernails
see, the past is not a headless infant with knives for
playful fingers, though it is not to say
that cribs or birdcages hold anything more than
what we leave them to engulf
i swallowed you whole, ocean— basked by the enchantments
of soft-spoken life, bathed by neurotic erosion.
they taught me that the cleansing of your body now
fades the transient you of yesteryear, speak in familiar tongue:
bathroom stall mirages of rounds, clocks, convey
Whenever I hurt myselfI have a feeling
Someone is watching
So I look around
But there's no one to be found
ExpirationWith you I always feel like I’m
to break in the wrong size of shoes.
Sometimes I sit and stew
over how you’re seventeen and
you think I’m a princess
the trapped-in-a-tower kind
and how you wear suits and talk about politics
and think you know the world.
My throat interrupts with an affronted gurgling sound
sometimes when I think about you,
you deal out advice where it just isn’t called for
you quote science-fiction to justify war
and you’re seventeen years old and you think I’m a princess
and you just have no blooming idea.
Darling, one of these days I will tell you my mind
But until then we’ll never fit
I’m afraid –
that even after that day
you’ll still be trimmed hedges and
on bradbury and table dancingYou are not a wordsmith
whatever you might like to think. ('Smith'
indicates precision and coldness and fire:
words are softer than that unless you mold them strong.)
It's a difficult road to follow, and not many
make it past the fork. Choose a path,
Janus says, whirligig keys spinning on his shoulders:
I am a wordworker, with my tools too crude, forming
rough-edged carvings painted with pretty imagery.
Notebooks scattered across the landscape
of a child's room, to be stumbled across,
read, red-penned, in the thick and choking breath of night.
When the bough breaks
a hanged man laughs. He carries typewriters
in his pockets, and cigarettes in the soles of his shoes.
I will never be a word mistress,
whoring myself to the speech of people I do not know and will never know me.
The oven is set to Fahrenheit 452, but the words were already aflame
before they ever took shape under your tongue.
You love everything they've ever written, and carry
unabashed loathing for every syllabl
Death to the LoversHe screamed,
He tore his hair from his scalp;
But it didn't bring her back.
The beautiful girl
With the gorgeous smile
And witty remarks
Would always lay six feet under.
She would lie in her death bed,
Her arms folded on her chest
And her face full of peace
Known only to the dead.
He would be the first to rot.
First his health,
Then his sanity.
She would forever feed on his emotions
Like a pretty little leech,
Sapping his well being
And happiness from her underground world.
And he would let her,
For a fool like him
Who allowed himself to love,
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