Stardust and luster puff
bloom in full petalled glory,
dancing decadently and delicately
in waves of motion
to the sound of the moon hitting skin.

Hues of lazy colors,
colors of royalty,
of lemonade,
of orange juice
of grape soda,
all sweetly mix together
in a concoction for auction
the eyes take it in,
every last sip of it is sold,
to the highest bidder.

The ocean the space of the earth,
a vast void that stretches like
an eternal blue blanket,
comforting in its view,
cold in its nature.

The aesthetical soul awaits, taking everything in through all senses...






































which drown her in their beauty.

She was moonlit skin
wrapped in the silence of the night
with dew drops for eyes
and a soul
made of wet earth.

We all die alone in our minds,
it is the comfort we have
with our demons
and self
that brings satisfaction of
life in
death.

There is something
so ominous
about
her iridescence.

I left with the intent
of seeing you again.

I wish I would have known
otherwise.

Monsters do exist,
simply in the stories we create.
They are indeed real,
but within pages and programs,
not
behind
you.

The difference between you and I,

is that I am a women, and you are a boy;
although around the same age,

my trauma matured me,
while yours trapped you as a child.

She was teacups made of China
and sunny spring afternoons.

She was soup
on the stove
when it was raining and grey
outside.

She was the gentle touch
of a birds feather
landing on my nose.

She was comfort in its essence,
and I hope to never lose her.

I write from my heart,
let the ink be my blood,
this poem is my heartbeat,
and it has lost its rhythm.

What is faith
but an empty promise
to a God
that abandoned us
years ago

The ghost of her presence
is well requested
in its
absence.

Sometimes to be completely free
means to be
unfathomably lonely.

Do I write for an audience
or for myself.
There is a struggle
to distinguish between
the voices of critics
in my head
and my voice
of reason.

At best,
angels are devils
playing nice.

The memories
of late October
torment me
like trick or treaters
begging
for more candy.

I sit here,
delusional, calm,
awaiting slumber,
between textbook pages.

Eyes hold me at gunpoint,
threatening to close,
now widen
with the promise of a new poem.

Remember whose bones
built your floorboards
before you lay a house
on their backs.

One day I hope
he festers and perishes
as badly as
he treated
me.

Hear no evil,
see no evil,
do no evil,

I bathe in the sound of his voice,
vocal chords of purity,
wash out the evils I have heard.

Hear no evil,

His body refreshing to the taste,
eye candy so sweet,
he might as well have been made of pure sugar,

See no evil,

His soul too clean,
to be stained with my hands,
so I watch from afar,
and relish in what I can...





Do no evil.

Because even streetlights
can look like dandelions,
if the windows
are foggy enough.

100 minutes in the sky,
times flies by,

you are a temptation,
I let subside.

Being near you,
is like flying high.


So high...


The bedroom with you,
is like 100 minutes



in the sky.

Flowers grow between my ribs,
and in the cracks of my mind.
While those around me call it beautiful,
it is getting hard to breathe.

There's a deep state of disruption
caused by deep chords
buzzing music
so loud
that you can
feel it in your soul
your chest pounds
to beat sounds,
and liquor bottle
lullabies.

The sky is stained
with wine,
as lazy clouds
move hungover
towards the sun.

The word love is tainted
with the stain
of your memory.

When you learn
that we are nothing more
than silk wrapped bone
and mortality,
then peace will flood you
and the gates to existence
will open.

Overcoming your fears
smells like the scent
of dried tears.

She smells like summer rain
and wet hair.
Like the forest after a storm
drowning in the sky's blessings.
She walks like chaos,
a cacophony of arms and legs
that jolt in the direction of travel.
She stands tall, with dark undereyes
and a dress that stops flowing
around her waist
but does not end
until **** near
her feet.
She stalks the night like a pedator and prey
all in one.

And she looks at me.

Freedom
is the feeling you get
when you breathe your first breath
and your ribs
no longer
press into
the floor.

There are 1,000 sorrows
between the front gate
and the back door.

They each have a name,
the same way
each fiber of a carpet
and each grain in wood
have a purpose.

I introduce myself to them
and introduce them
to their matching
1,000 joys

and watch
as the world
is born

I cupped your face
and my hands stung
because you knew
what it meant
to be
holy

Alone and Alone
I write these words twice
so at least
they have company.

Are pure moments
Of fleeting freedom
Worth a lifetime
Of just the promise
Of just that?

Who am I
But the shadow
Of who I want to be
And the people
I've left
Behind.

Her freckles
are cinnamon sprinkles
that land
just across
her nose.

Her hair curls
like baby blue laughter
at the thought
of miseltoe.

She is my one and only
this festive girl
through and through.

And dear, to my one and only
Will I say "I do."

My skin is my weapon,
stained with blood underneath.
Thick and bullet proof,
and able to form barriers
to the harshness of this world.

He called her Holy,
untouched,
but in the way that
a wolf would call out
its prey's name.

He howled it;
before
devouring
her.

Ignore your state,
and the doctors will only treat
the symptoms
and let the disease
fester.

You will die of consequences
placed in hand by yourself.

But then again,
you'll take every opportunity
to claw at relief,
now will you?

I guess
what I fear
cannot be
founded in fiction,
but in reality
itself.

And I wear her aura
like a bracelet
on my wrist,

the same way
I wear my boots
in the fabric
of my own skin.

Do not mistake my kindness for my weakness,
for those who have only braved a stormy sea before,
can approach a second one with a smile.

I really miss her,
the woman who knew
her place:
on top of the throne.

She was angel guarding the gates of Hell,
a beauty born in the wrong
generation.
Her dreams touch the sky
She sings
lullabies,
Yet Hell
remains
Hell.

She was serendipity in a bottle,
A fire in a jar without a lid.
She was the flower on the side of the road,
She was the garden in the dead of night.
She was moonlight bleaching dark clouds.
She was my favorite accident.
My serendipity.

What is death
but an ailment
we cannot
cure.

At my very core
am I as human
as I was promised
to be?

I am the wild beast they fear,
however,
impeccable control keeps inner linings
intact.

I await for the day,
that I am allowed to unleash
the *****
you called by name,
but
never
got
to
see.

"You're just human." She told me

"Human" does not mean it's not wrong.

just...









normal.

If existence
is but the fools game
then I play
to become
existential.

I knew a girl that bled bouquets,

her tears perfumated with the sweet scent of sorrow,

and I fell in love with the way she wore her pain.