I’d close my book, pick the prettiest font for The End. Dust to dust

If I fill myself with worry I’ll be weightless, drift away with glass eyes and a timber temperament. They call it bipolar, I call it drifting north. I’m afraid of heights

I've drank the finest of wine
Down to the bottom of the bottle
Only to witness an ocean alone
Barely surviving my own hands

A fire burned through my viens
That was blew out by the wind
Breezing through the leaves
A calmness that sits with me
Before calmness dismisses me

I walked across the tallest blue sky
Where wide winged birds soar high
Til promises of white clouds turn grey
And so there I fell with the rain
Dripping through the lowest gutter

Many times I was buried, lying in dirt
Like a grave, needing no help
Finding the dark inside of myself
But I always rise with the blades
Of the greenest fresh spring grass

No matter what feeling I catch
None of them seem to everlast

And I can control my feelings better now.
The shakes are still there of course-
General anxiety is another problem to deal with,
But, since it's winter,
I can pass it off as just being cold
When the small child holds my hand
And asks me "why are you doing that?"

The drugs are working,
And I can feel myself getting calmer by the day.
The things that bother me don't so much anymore,
And the medication flows through my bloodstream
And into my brain, slowly changing it's
Chemical make-up, and helping me become
A better person.

The drugs are working,
And this is my first attempt at a poem in months.
There's no rhyme or structure anymore,
And it's lacking a certain something that you're used to-
The metre is non-existent, and everything has
Descended into free verse.

The drugs are working,
And I can't help but wonder if that's a good thing or not-
Perhaps it is. Perhaps it is the case that I have simply forgot
The unbearable pain from which my poetry was born,
But still I miss it- those ups and downs which made me... me
And now, as I stare blindly at some old withered tree
I forget what poetry lies within, and only feel forlorn.

The drugs are working,
The old feelings have gone away
And, with them, a part of my soul,
Which could not stay another day,
In this unpoetic hole.

But the drugs are working...

I am no poet nor elysian saint.
I am nothing more than a
living record of transgressions:
odes and testaments of
tarnished gold intentions.

it is for naught: sincere
folly to search for an
elusive inner meaning.
I cannot ascertain if
any exist. take heed to
proceed with caution

there are years which
answer; providing insight,
clarity, a gateway to serenity.

yet there are the years
yielding naught but
empty questions

   e  
  c 
    h
    o  
   i    
n  
   g

soundlessly across
the starless horizon.

these hands are riddled
with memories of all
that I burnt, broke
and dismantled.

scorch marks
embellish my skin:
lamenting cries tasting
of ashes and insidious intent.

whenever home is no longer
hospitable; the foundation
crumbling under derelict
decay and dilapidated
compassion. empathy
common sense.
boundaries.

where does one begin
unravelling the shards of
broken bonds, presuming
to eradicate the distorted
fragments of fermented
claws, kisses, and teeth?

I am a storm with skin:
volatile, tempestuous,
forever untamed by
human hands.

do not misinterpret
the agelessness of
my Soul as a catalyst
for destruction.
chaos is no longer the
joy in my heart.

"Do you believe in love?"

she shook her head.

"Well, you know what love does to people—destruction," she whispered quietly.

his astonished eyes stared at her with wonder and confusion.

"Being in love means you'd be willing to sacrifice and risk everything for it; or even worse, fight against anything that against it. All my life, I only witnessed the kind of love that ruin one another."

"Look at Bonnie and Clyde. Look at ******'s love for his Arya race. Look at Confessions of a Shopaholic. Look at Gollum. There's a thin line between obsession and love, and sometimes you can't tell which one is which."

her eyes looked far across the city; as if she was longing for something. perhaps, he thought, it's true that woman is an open book, it's just most men don't read and it's written in ancient Greek.

"But how about your Mom? How about the owner of animal shelter? How about the Environmentalist? How about the firefighters and crisis call center officers?" he responded.

and in that very moment, she knew she was in safe hands.

I wonder if you got caught or catched or just can’t

Talk to me

what was i supposed to be?
imploded stardust, floating aimlessly across
the universe expanding, never minding
cruelty escaping, dissipating,
evaporating,
but i can't be nothing if i was something,
laws of conservation of energy rejecting
my lack of preservation.

i want liquid gold inside my veins,
ruptured mind, kaleidoscope bones
creaking in the night.

i'm lost, florescent daylight  
cold and grim, fabricated and burning my retinas
an eight hour parable trying, to stay afloat
but coming home and wishing dark behind
eyelids; burnt.

what was i supposed to be?
sunshine reflected on flowers
warm and liquid, amber in the windows
dripping, pain immersed in honey
making the best out of a leak flowing
endlessly through the tap,
my kitchen sink old but practical.

i was supposed to be me,
whatever that may be.

The game of divide and rule, 
Started by some conniving fool.
Since the beginning of its conception, 
It has brought about all the destruction.

Empires are fallen with this rule,
Power hungry people's tool.
First create fear and uncertainty, 
Show a carrot for some sense of security.

The game was played for ages, 
Creating rifts to ignite rages.
Why people can't see the string?
Looking at the carrot, they start to sing.

Unity, coöperation and empathy,
We do not need the political boundary.
All current issues are global,
Climate change is not just local.

We need to unite for greater good,
See beyond the fool's gold.
Understand that Earth matters,
Act now before it shatters.

A joke to choke on