Affixed to the Lee–Enfield,
this blade, this trigger point,
stricken by ambush,
enters the melee
along the false edge,
cuts to the core,
like sympathizers of
William of Orange.

There are no daggers
apart from war,
just an ocean of
death and defeat,
its water,
its ever rising water,
swallows us whole.

Let yourself burn, let yourself be
Eaten away by the darkness you once preyed on,
Till all that's left is a puddle of wax (tears) on the plate (bed).

It's better to give out rather than to give in,
To cry and rage and scream and after that to lie exhausted.

Bloom like the rose after, coat in red and thorns sharper,
Unrelenting but its beauty brings comfort to eyes of lovers,
Rush not the pain of burning and blooming. Feel.
Not because you're weak but because you are stronger after.

Withered flowers reminds us that
Withering is fine.
Waters --in any shape they are--
Will bring the colors of us again.

The story of two people,
sitting in the gentle night.
They hold their hands
without impatient fear.
Maybe this is true intimacy?

Too many plans, too many
subtle strategies
in the hiding place—
everything to avoid
the pain after.

Longing for what could be,
we say goodbye
to the now,
that leaves so quickly.

Between words,
taming the common confusion,
we will never come any closer
to another human being.

Celebrating the quiet feeling
of comprehension,
absorbed by the paradox of facts—
above differences, imposed tattoos.

We are sitting in the deep,
friendly night,
holding entwined hands
with an ephemeral moment
of fulfilled, trusting intimacy.

It's a cold world with so many people who don't seem to care about anything. It's a cold world with so many people who are waiting like a scorpion to sting.

Some people don't give a ****, are you one of them too?! I don't know if you care about me, but I give a **** about you!

It's a cold world, but there are still people who would want to believe in you. It's a cold world, but there are still people who would want to stay close and be true.

Some people don't give a ****, are you one of them too! I don't know if you care about me, but I give a **** about you!

Some people don't wanna help, some give a penny or two. I don't know if you care about me, but I give my all to you! I give my all to you!!!

she took my picture,
that's how it started
that's how i knew,
she took my picture
off the refrigerator door

when your picture is taken off
the refrigerator
like dust off a knick knack shelf

you do the dishes,
you have to wash your own socks.

the refrigerator is cursed
like a lost winning lottery ticket.
cursed with pictures of dead pets,
dead aunt's, cousins, grandma...

(my picture rip off the fridge like $#@#$#@...)


the fridge hums its song,
warm on the outside
and cold on the inside.

you *******, i shout,
and i punched the fridge,
packed my suitcase,

grabbed my fishing pole
and out the front door
I went.

half way down the sidewalk,
I turned

and there was little Jack
looking out the window at me.

(tears ran down my cheeks.)

MAN! I'm gonna miss that dog!!!

I’ve moved out (of school),
I’m moving in (to school).
My joke is that I’m having a ‘moving experience.’

Graduating college (3 days ago) was a dream come true
I’m starting a master’s degree in 7 days.
You have to admire the efficiency.

Do I have your permission to bear my soul?
I might have imposter syndrome.
I’m a harsh critic—of everything—but mostly me.

I’m over the romance and pressure of school.
I’m starting the romance and pressure of school.
Don’t worry, this isn’t hapless, sad girl literature.

Or a diary—it’s a portrayal of my inner life.
.
.
A song for this:
What Dreams Are Made Of by Evann McIntosh
Messy by Lola Young [E]

Tell me that I’ll pull through,
Or I’m a little bit feel down.
For you it’s just a trifle,
And for me it’ll give a strength crown.

I'll know there's someone believes in me
I'll just hear, that he's somewhere.
Even it’s not true, doesn’t matter.
Tell lies! I really don’t care!

Tell me that I’ll overcome,
That my spirit is really strong.
But don’t pry into my soul.
It’s sealed up with black wax for long.

It shouldn’t be touched soever,
It’s only the time for its rest.
Tell me that I’ll pull through.
Tell me something! I want to be confessed!