She holds my heart in two
Her hands are drenched in blood
She’s my evil queen

An evil fantasy
No unicorns or flowers, just me
Sitting alone in an empty field.

Ghosts holding hands, squeezing them tightly
White faces pale, eyes shining
Me in a corner crying

Down on one knee
Another collapses under me
An earthquake is happening

The sunset is peaceful
I open my eyes once again to see nothing
I’ve been hallucinating.

Where are her bloodstained hands?
Why is she holding a bloodied dagger?
Why is there an urgent pain in my chest?
Suddenly
I feel nothing.

18th July 2016

There is
a ripeness
          pending.
It stares at
me in the face,
          unblinking,
like an animal
ready to pounce.
It drinks in
my psyche,
             my blood
pumping
in its wild, tender veins.
It soaks up
the vitality
           clamoring
within me, like
a tornado
about to break force,
winds gathering
tightly under moonlight
a cosmic dam about
                      to burst.
It is a spell
cast into wilderness,
pristine and untouched,
yet longing for fulfillment
an undoing
of the senses
a subconscious unraveling
that journeys into
            unknown vistas
                with no map
Perhaps the
only real guidance
is each fine-tuned
          sensibility in turn:
Eyes taking in the colors
within pulsing electricity
as they merge
             and re-separate
into distinct tinctures
of luminosity  
Ears welcoming
the instruments
        of our bodies
as they writhe in tune
with acoustic passion,
hearing the cries of
wolf and owl whispers
          of trees deeply
reverberating into nightfall
Smell, to inhale
the muskiness of earth
the salt of sea
the crisp dusk of fire
and your pinelit, animal scent
                           familiar yet far
tracing me to you
like predator to prey
in magnetic vortex
  Touch,
                 to hold the
strands of my being
in place, steadied
by mahogany and silk
soft and solid at once
as the rhythms of storm
                 rock the house
And then:
Taste
to lusciously peel back
the layers of
             our essence        
letting them brew
in their own juices      
as they gather
  upon the tongue
in an effulgent stream:
sweet merging with salt
      pleasantly sour and piquant
with understanding
whetting appetites
in a sumptuous feast
         of enlightenment
that only shows us how,
in both primitive and
             ethereal awareness,
we had known this
was going
to happen
       all our
             lives

I feel beautiful
but only when I'm hungry
Only when I can hear my stomach begging me to eat something
Only when I can feel myself losing weight
Only when they say, "you're getting to thin, you're doing great!"
Only when I'm drinking a bottle of water in the span of a minute so that I can be full
Only when I'm starving but I push the plate away.

I feel beautiful
But only when I'm counting calories
Only when I'm running that extra mile to stay slim

I feel beautiful
Until I'm looking down at my thighs and I see that they touch
Until a girl says how curvy I am when I'd just like to be flat and slim
Until I step on the scale and it laughs and says I've gains a few pounds

I feel beautiful
until I look at myself in a fullbody mirror and think, "GROSS"

I feel beautiful
when I haven't eaten for 3 days and no one notices
When I'm popping a rubber band to my wrist saying, "you're not hungry your just bored" over and over again
And my stomach replys, "I'm dying, why are you doing this, feed me"

I feel beautiful
Until the girl next to me is thinner than I am
Until daddy tells me I'm getting fat
Until I hear the boys in the distance say that they'd never, ever, ever date big girl

I feel beautiful
But only when I'm dying of starvation
Only when I'm literally empty on the inside

I felt beautiful
Until I realized that fat is an insult
And i wondered why
Do we not glide the same why?
Do our stretch marks make us inelegant?
Are we unladylike because we eat?

I feel beautiful until I don't anymore
Until beauty is too much in the eye of the beholder
Until I am not allowed to be the beholder
Until beauty is a category of waist size double zero

I feel beautiful
Because I'm allowed to
Because the number on the scale does not define Me
Because I Define me

Take this boy
Holes in his shoes
Holes in his clothes
Hand me down rags

Greed turned this boy to man

Take this man
Gold in his hands
Diamonds in his hair
Destruction in his soul

Death turned this man to ashes

Take these ashes
Fluid on a wind
Lost without all
Nothing that will be missed

Time turned these ashes to memory

Memory of a boy
Hope reflects upon his ***** face
corruption cleans the dirt
And leaves the monster

Roses are red
Violets are blue
This is as cliché
As it's possible too.

Wherever you were
Born and bred
Your clichéness will be
Ripped to shreds

Long story short
It's been said before
It's not a *one in a million chance
That when it rains, it pours

Or practice makes perfect
It's said all the time
I'm sick and tired of these clichés
They're really difficult to rhyme

Only time will tell
So be careful of what you're reading
'Cause everything happens for a reason
And looks can be deceiving

So if I think outside the box
And all dreams can come true
Then the use of a cliché
Would be enough to **** you

But if you're lucky enough
To have *played your cards right
This could be the first day
Of the rest of your life