You will never be able to buy satisfaction with words.

He
is a story
I do not mind
reading over
and over
and over
and over
and over
again.

Angelecism is a pursuit
worthy of Gods
but taken up by
Devils
galore.

Change is a game,
and those afraid to play,
will never win.

I replay our memories like broken records,
because our music just doesn't sound the same anymore.

The CD I re-watch, is covered in scratches,
so it won't replay with the same images anymore.

The same way your emotions distort
my memory of you.

I sail on a boat
in the middle of sea,
sand and waves
calling to me,

skin unburnt
fights washed away,
as I say evening prayers,
to live another day.

I have never lived without the fear of not knowing tomorrow's breeze.

I guess I just got distant.
One moment, I wanted to be as close to you as possible.
The next, I was running away from your
knife
sharp
love.

Tell me,

do I look like the fool you speak to me as?

Sometimes
letting go
means making a bonfire
and using
your old mobile like
firewood

Melody,
oh sweet sweet melody
a familiarity
closing in on me.

I cannot but adore the silence
in the same way these notes hit,
anxious for its presence,
yet calm in its arrival.

The deja vu, of tunes so known
that the lyrics come out
as if we had wrote them.

Here all along,
a touch away from comfort
is always
something to be treasured.

I can afford the luxury
Of forgetting
When near a man so rich in
Personality and taste.

Some days there will be nobody.
Nobody to love,
nobody to care,
but it is in the black hole of nothingness,
in which we pull our strength from most.

Let flowers bloom from memories, and call them dreams.

Whoever said circles
under eyes were unattractive
clearly never held their's up
with pride.

Dedication, the endless hours
of studying and writing
etched on lines of paper
and lines on skin.

Control,  to not fall into
the bags that grow wider
underneath eyes.

Energy, making a millimeter
go a mile.
A long day of work
then no sleep.

I hold my undereyes up with pride.
I have passed the tests needed to obtain them.
And I refuse to let anyone
Anyone.
Take away that pride.

My eyes display strength and control.
I earned them.
Dare not disrespect them.

For they shall not accept it.

Healed wounds do not make for good poetry.

Heartaches are like knee scrapes,
they are either there for a moment,
or leave a scar that will last you a life-time.

I am back to my middle school self

I can feel my bones decaying back to
that little 5'1 girl,
hiding in the back of class,

shoulders hunched with pressure
for perfection,
worry etched in lines
on her thighs.

The child no more but not quite the adult yet,
sitting down to eat alone.

Alone, I enjoy it.

No one to worry about, no one to care,

Alone,

I can die, Alone, without a soul left to haunt me.

Alone,
Waiting for freedom,

was death what I was waiting for?

Alone.

Another night alone,
and I am trying to scrub off
the bruises
with running tap water
and soap.
I scrub until the skin is raw,
and make a note,
to keep my hands out of sight;
others and my own.
I've been stained
with wounds
that cannot be
washed away.

I am sorry.

Naked cherubs
lie vulnerable
with kindness,
and like the fool,
you approach
unaware
he is a soldier.

Goosebumps on pale, skin, flesh,
rise to the occasion like she does.
Anxiety may cover her body,
but courage encompasses her heart.

I've been acting like
who I want to become
more than
who I actually am.

I have given up my summer
for whom?
Not myself,
nor my friends,
but for that beautiful
4.0,
at the end.

Depth requires straightforwardness.
Do not go looking in the sea,
putting meaning to every grain of salt
and sand you lay your hands on,
as you will focus so much on detail,
you will forget,
that oxygen is running low,
and you are still
near
the
surface.

I bathe in
lavender hues
rippling across oceans,
drowning sunsets
in their coolness.

I wish I had the strength
to be
vulnerable.

And the moonlight pooled at your shoulders,
stars framing a saturated, sapphire smile,
as if the heavens were getting ready
to bow at your feet.

Under your command, the sun should explode,
fiery bursts of anger fill the world,
they don't understand
how one man
can cause
this much
damage.

My dear, chaotic universal energy lives inside your moon pale skin.

Chaotic destruction or construction.








You decide.

Admitting to faults
is a hard thing to do
when you've been taught
to bury them.

The echoes
of your presence
remain
in my empty mind.

I hide beneath the water,
gasping for air to breathe,
but the only air I need
is the familiarity
of drowning.

I rather taste
the salt in my lungs
than break the pain
of first breath.

I'd rather die
in this state
than give up
pieces of my 'personality'
for happiness.

Chaotic familiarity is forever a welcoming storming sea.

You need not throw away
depth or darkness for beauty.
For it is the oceans vast depths
and its mysterious darkness
that creates a sense
of wonder
and
beauty.

I am the archer behind the moon,
shooting it into orbit each night,
glimmering stars lie in its wake,
as sunshine is no more.

Innocence is held most dearly, by those who no longer have it.

I wish I could erase
the reminders
of my sin off of my skin.
I scrub it raw,
as if I am stained
with unholy filth
but cannot get away
from the reminder
of relapse.

I was doing so good,
I had felt like
my halo had been dusted off
and placed back on my head.

Only to be taken away
with the very hands
that put it there.

Even though I have fallen from heaven again,
I will shake the dirt from my wings,
heal their markings,
and return.

I must always remember,
no matter how many times I have fallen,
that I have a place
to go back to...

Heaven.

Bodies like cigarettes
with cherry red kisses
are a summer time treat
we all await for.

I am afraid to give something my all,
to pour myself empty
to make something full,
only for it to be graded
judged
assessed
as
"Not good enough."

Teary eyed skies,
and drowning sadness seas
come together
and clash
so blue together
that they feed
on each others
sadness.

I live in these moments,
in the space between the lines,
in the space between the picture frames,
in the walls between these lies.

Within the pause of a comma,







Within the hope we must oblige,
I live perfectly and in harmony,
in this space,
in this moment
between the lines.

Tell me, Icarus,
am I the sinner
you dreamt of meeting
in heaven,

when you threw
yourself
to the sun?

Her ***** stained breath
and ****** *** teeth
made a deadly cocktail
that no man
ever dare
to drink.

Staticed rain falls
outside window panes.
Blurred sound
of droplets hitting
greenery
is a lullaby
from mother nature.

B e a u t i f u l.

She said "I'm so OCD."

And I searched her hands for the color of raw meat worn ****** pink,

and I searched her soul for the gripping anxiety,

and I searched her body for symmetrical bruises,

and I breathed a sigh of relief,

when I realize it was just a joke


for her.

He is ripping out handfuls of himself
out from his own skin.
Icarus, the feathers you wore,
and spent nights crafting,
you now pull apart
in fistfuls.
The very freedom you worked so hard to
attain,
is the very thing
you
now
destroy.

You are most angelic when your touch is far away from me.

Nostalgia is written in
the paragraphs of a sunset.
Between lemonade colored memories
is the red hot sand of the beach.
Clouds float by,
just like good old times.

I see her when I walk across the street,
staring at her
in stranger's faces,
never quiet ever
having her same
honey colored eyes.

I watch him as I digress,
a new memory being formed in the moment,
laughter between food,
a lifetime of memories
is eaten in one
bite.

His lips don't taste the same as before,
no,
this time around,
it's sweeter.

This time around I do not need to savor every morsel
this time around,
I get to eat him whole.

I treasure those eyes,
like marbles in my pocket,
I hold them deep in the crevice
of my mind's hand.

Night slips on the shadow's horizon,
light no longer a blanket,
and for a moment,
the cold feels inviting.
loneliness a sin or the sinner?

God knows.

All I know,
is that nostalgia
is written
in the
paragraphs
of
a
sunset,




or if you're a poet, the stanza's of night.

Hush tones now full grown,
she spoke louder than the hatred of her voice.
But ****,
she said it.
And ****,

She was good.

I am but a stain;
**** of the earth,
I am nothing more than
a mistake,
a fallen drink
onto carpet,
destined to be washed away
with hard working hands
scrubbing clean.

I have become worthless
in my own eyes once more,
and wish to hate myself
out of existence again.

I do not attack the hand that strikes
me with cloth,
for I am just a stain...
waiting to be
washed
away.

My sanity echoes,

wind moving past me faster than change.

Honey you and I both know things
are just...

not the same.

I bathe in the sound.

Music notes make good soap.

Wash away...

                           Whatever is still left.


Another day. Another day. Another day.


And my sanity




                                                is



washed








                                  
                                                                                                            Away.

I know it's getting bad again,
because I'm writing more again.

Better to hide in the moonlit scenery
I can create, cold dewdropped skin,
rather than face
the heat of the day.

I escape in my cave of magnanimity,
until I can face the sun
with new unhurt skin

once
again.

Ah,
and here we meet again
the soul ******* ghost
of your company
reminiscent of
the sun after the rain;
only to be missed.