Threads mold my throat.
Crumpled paper lay within wrinkles
of time,
mountains of ideas strike the clock

I've run out of lines,
and gasp without air
a faint squeal
as my head bobbles off.

                   S
                                  P
                           ­                     L
                                          ­                 A
                                                               ­         T.

"Unloved"

a flickering red light
at night
shaking hands with insomnia


"They don't care"


haunting my mind.


My lungs wrapped with their agreement,
a trapping embrace - cold and fragmented.


I felt like myself again,
but my box,
didn't come with more pieces.


To replace the ones I lost.


My heart
beats sideways; wrongly,
through my ribcage.
Tearing it, and my body apart.
As easily as paper.


Life's a dead end.
I know I'll lose all parts of me.
One by one; forgotten.


Like ashes in the wind.

Distraction corrupts you.
As you lack interest.
I am just, noise.
Your ears are cushioned; absorbing a buzz.

Just listen to me, respect me.
Mocking me as I try to be civil.
You belittle me.
And the buzzing stops.

Your head finally turns.
You slapped the fly,
and its juices neatly seat the bench,
and you stare, and you don't care.

I slump, melting.
Clenching my jaw.
You pluck my wings,
and I let you.

My dignity stripped.
Your ego; unrestrained, unrestricted.
I just watch,
as my eyes blurt a river.

Love does not stare at me
love that fills the lungs and steals the breath
of those who find their perfect match
and share a bond that never ends.

A magnificent surge of energy
that lasts for days and months and years
a source of joy and happiness
until it ruptures,
thrown onto the ***** pile.

They fall for lust instead of love
they don't discern its subtle tricks
their hearts beat out of sync and slow
they feel a pang, they think it's love.

It starts out fine, but soon they see
the truth behind the false pretense
no Lilies, no Valentine - just desire, a ****** one.
They build a physical bond; un-washable glue.

They crave their touch, they need their kiss
they look for someone else to fill
the void inside their lonely hearts
but never feel the lust they miss

Believe it or not -

I gather you do.

I’m fueling, a growing fire

which burns bright
and gold.

Since my shy heart,

loves beauty

for it, is all of you.

A glowing sun,

playful and greedy,

as I.

When youth ran through me, ignorance kept me bright and happy. I loved living. I never felt the tight squeeze of my bubbled throat, when confrontation leaked darkness through my front door. I never shed a tear for the way I was wired - for the way I thought.

I never wanted to **** myself. Ever.

All these things, these hurtful things began too soon. I wasn't developed enough to figure my way out of this infinite crease, to blurt oceans of heavy, empty feelings I couldn't explain. My eyes faulted, and blurred whenever I'd look inside.

To find my charcoal heart.

I was struck too hard, too fast by reality.

While others walked joyously through blooming gardens. I would tread through a dark and claustrophobic hallway. I fear it's narrow depth, uneasy by the only path ahead.

I heard horrid buzzing sounds and consumingly loud thumps;

my heartbeats.

There was no light, only guidance by noise. When I'd trip on something, I'd cry and panic. Only, for it to be a thought.

I'd limp through a terrifying smell. Their smell, the smell of their confidence.

Or so I thought,

it was omnipresent in my life for years. Then, figuring out recently, the smell was my narcissistic thoughts, my insecurities, and the reason I am constantly folding the crease.

It sincerely is,
all my fault.
I thought I was the greatest,
in fact,
I am the lowest of them all.
The easiest book to decipher; translucent.
They knew me,
before I could find out for myself.

I twirl my umbrella.
Not over me, since I'm far from excited,
or happy.

I stepped out into the rain after work.

Opening it
I realized,

it had a hole,

and is now worthless,
but I would hate to let it go.

My grandmother passed it down to my mother and my mother gave it to me.

Before she passed.

A sad old lady,
stubborn and empty.

This umbrella reminds me of that.
A part of her I hated,
but can’t let go of.

She was still my mother.

And so I twirl it,
closed and hidden,
to my right.

The same side she laid on.
When Grim came near.
There, she stared at me
with her glossy blue eyes
and said her last furrow-browed “Hello”.