he had a cigarette in his mouth
that lingered at the tip of his lips;
the bottom one.
his eyes screamed of despair

yet his mouth said nothing;
bitter and harsh words leaked
out and without meaning

they meant something;
I'm currently racking through your brain,
while burning in your veins delicately.
I'll always be there,

waiting while;
your voice trembles like wings
and your bones whisper melodies, loudly
*loudly

in this blue sphere
dancing twisty crimson foxtrots
in pumpkin cream lightflower gardens
where incandescent rose quartz chrysanthemums bloom too.

We speak indigo vibrations
as our hearts glow emerald green
like a single flame illuminates a cave.

Upon an embrace,
bathed in foamy white light
floating away in theta waves
in an azurite lightning whisky bottle.

We go with our FLOW.

I am
The night
Deceiving
and mysterious
A comfort to those
Who are comfortably
Delirious

I am
A flower
Who bathes in rain
And dances in the sun
Oblivious to
pain

I am
An animal
That should not be
Contained
Something
Wild and free
Never to be
tamed

I am
A woman
Strong and proud
But still just a single
Voice
In a bustling
Crowd

I am
A soul
Wrapped up in
Skin
Fleeing my body
And all of its
Sins

it rained in October
         and I loved it.

as I looked out onto the field
        I reminisced about all of the seasons
and how none of them meant more to me
    than autumn, rain, and you.

I have never woken up and felt so **** alone.

*** is a hell of a drug.
Panic is a hell of a drug
Suicide is a hell of a drug.
Adrenaline is a hell of a drug.
Gossip is a hell of a drug.
Art is a hell of a drug.
Fighting is a hell of a drug.
TV is a hell of a drug.
The internet is a hell of a drug.
Cigarettes are a hell of a drug.
Drugs are hell.

There's a really heavy typewriter on the shelf above me.
It's old. It's broken. It's beautiful.
"I wish I could use it." is always my first thought when I stare up into its under-carriage of prongs and teeth.
It doesn't fit on the shelf, and it surely doesn't belong there.
My first thought should be "That may fall and **** me at any moment", but I think I avoid that thought because I kind of hope it does. What a way to go out. Not intentional. I didn't put it up there with the intention of it becoming some sort of Medieval time-bomb, but the symbology behind that accidental death would be enough for me to be satisfied with the ending of my life.
If you manage to banish the senseless fascination with your imagination's speculation of what people will think of you if you do THIS...or when THAT happens...then what's there to fear about failure? Failure just becomes progress at that point.
There's a really heavy typewriter on the shelf above me, and a part of me hopes that it falls and bashes my skull in.