My poetry exist
with a crooked purpose—

And so,
its crooked disturbance
violates
its comfort presence.

It exists
without my consent.

- Paul P. Deratany

With my eyes closed,
I see your ghost.
Somebody I used to know.
Both caught in razor thorns,
with broken bones,
bleeding from
twisted tongues.
Fire breathing,
burning my heart,
Memories bring out the dark,
They leave me breathless.

G̴o̷o̴d̸b̸y̷e̸ ̸P̷a̴u̵l̵
*******̶ ̷Y̸O̶U̷!̶

It begins with friendly love,
ends in scars of ****** madness—
I cut my teeth
on deadly, forbidden names
from the thorns for the rose.
Falling in the deep,
watching the days
burn down into decades—
leaving me breathless.

I realized:
how we fractured in flames
is how I poisoned us to the ground
with bleach and vinegar
and ignite us on fire.
Your corrupt shadows
lurk in chemicals and ashes
everywhere I go.

You’re gone,
and so am I—
Yet your essence is not.
You’ve waited for so long…
I’m sorry
for breaking you.
I hope you rest—
peacefully…

I̷ ̵a̶S̷ ̷F̶r̶E̸e̸ f̶O̷r̸G̷i̸V̸e̷ y̵O̷u̵,̷
̵y̶E̸t̵ n̶E̸v̵e̷R̶ F̵o̶R̸g̸E̷t̶ ̷
̷t̶H̸e̴ ̵d̷E̴e̵d̸S̸ o̵F̵ ̴t̶H̵e̴
̸f̴A̵l̵L̴e̸N̷ ̶a̸N̸g̴E̸l̵ ̴
̶y̵O̵u̷'̷V̴e̷ b̶E̶c̷O̵m̵E̶.̶.̸.̵
̶w̶E̷'̵l̷l̸ s̴P̵l̷I̵t̵ ̵p̶A̶t̸H̸s̴,̴
̶a̷N̵d̵ ̵o̷N̴e̴ ̴D̵a̷Y̵,̸ ̵
̸w̵E̵’̶L̵l̸ ̴ ̵m̵E̶e̸T̵ ̴a̵G̶a̷I̷n̶.̷.̶.̶
̶
̸G̴o̴O̵d̴B̸y̶E̷ ̶P̸a̷u̵l̶.̷.̸.̵

Your name—
Screaming in violins.
The clock on the wall,
ticking in a rhythm—
A crooked dance.
Behind closed eyes,
I see your
million white eyes
staring down dark halls.
Red lights only glowing.
A green exit sign,
always there, taunting me.
Like a vivid dream
gone wrong—
My heart, my body,
your eyes—
locked in place.

I̶ ̸c̵A̸n̶'̵T̵ ̵M̸O̶V̶E̶

The red walls talk.
I used to know them,
whispering to my left—
Turning into screams
of the violin.
On the dead TV to my right,
an amber alert goes off…
A glitching static,
breathing heavy and low—

y̸O̶u̷ ̸B̸r̴O̵k̶E̵n̵ ̷m̶E̵.̴

The room hums louder
in violins and TV static.
The red walls—
breathing heavy and loud.
Pale eyes—
Watching close upon me,
tearing my chest open—
Burning, bleeding,
wounds open, hearts exposed.
A hand of a million poor souls
slammed the TV screen and walls—
Over and over
into a cursed rhythm,
My heartbeat—
Screaming—
Screaming—
s̴C̷r̵e̸A̷m̵I̷n̶G̸—
Until it shatters.
The clock stops ticking.

y̴O̴u̸"̷r̴E̸ ̷L̷o̸S̵t̴.̶.̷.̵
̸N̸e̷V̸e̸r̴ ̷f̶O̶u̶N̶D̸.̶.̴.̷
̴w̶H̵o̶ ̵h̵a̶V̵e̷ ̴y̷O̶u̴ ̸
b̶e̷E̵n̷/p̷R̵a̷y̸I̸N̴g̶ ̷t̷O̴
̵a̶L̸l̷ ̵t̸H̸i̴s̸ ̸t̶I̶m̵E̸?̶

Each corner I turn,
my heart hurts—
Burning in ashes,
beating, bleeding—
Lurking everywhere.
Scars on my arms,
barely healing—

I think about you
every once in a while,
standing out in
wild nightmares.
I hugged you in a dream,
whispered sorry for lost times.
I know you still hate me—

**** it.
I don’t want you,
running back,
coming and going—
Go burn
in paradise!

I remember yesterday,
walking down the street
with crooked trees dancing
and the sun burning down
from the heavenly
sky-blue and pink skies—

Crows and winds
screaming in laughter.
Surrounded by
a crowd of souls.

The one stood out.
Like a ghost
of nightmares,
he walked past
through me.

My heart skipped
an important beat—
And there,
my heart bleeds
in blood and cold tears
from memory.

To tell a tale of my heart,
I love you.
I love your hair,
your handsome face,
your lips,
your hips,
your soft skin,
your chest,
your body,
the beauty and ugly scars,
the stitched up soul—
The messy and imperfect you.
I love your personality—
I love you no matter what.

I love your spring green eyes,
your teeth,
your smile,
the sound of your laugh,
your voice—
Nature’s melody
lost in the Wheat Fields
of Dreams.

To tell a tale—
You appear in dreams,
crossing my mind like a crosswalk,
your name ringing in my head like bells.

I love the way you breathe,
the sound of the warm summer breeze.
I love the way you walk,
the way you talk.
I love how you shut me up—
The way you pin me
against the wall.

I love the way your hands
resting on my chest,
the way you grab my neck—
Yet never choke me,
like the tangled vines.

I love the way you bite me,
the way you kiss me,
the way you miss me.
I love the way you keep me safe,
the way you comfort me,
your lovely words of affirmations,
the way your heart beats calmly—
A thousand mellow drums beating.
I love the way you see me.

I love the way you make me alive—
like burning fire.

To tell a tale of my heart,
I can’t not love you—
I love you.

Come here,
young traveller…
I harvest the pain,
from the scattered brains
to the shattered hearts
across the wheat fields.

My soul will untangle
the poison vines.
Though thorns
will cut my arms,
I bled many more before—
I’ll bleed for you.

You carry so many scars,
to still believe you’re beautiful,
love—
Oh child, young child,
who did this to you?

Knives twist,
gutting your insides,
strung from chest to thighs.
Running like prey,
hearts beating a million drums,
lost for breath—

Strings of stress
tied to the heart—
A manipulated puppet
played with by crooked hands
and conjured voices,
each sharper than
my harvesting scythe.
Tangled in a wild dance
for far too long…

I hear the hollow
whispering beyond
Blood Orange Valley.
Here, young traveller,
give me your hand.
Let me be the one—
stabbed through the heart,
covered in a million wounds,
left tangled in
The Hanging Tree—
You need rest now.
Be free,
young traveller.