catch me if you cani'd like to smear ashesover bloody heathen lipsand twist burnt corsagesaround the maypole.this rotten witch's heartwould love to curse you all.disease has never looked solovely, i do declare, crawlingup your blistering limbs.in case you are not aware—love kills slowly, but revenge tastes so sweet,so i'll just tip-toe off of this cliffand embrace the beast awaiting for me below.phoenix rising,sunlight fading;we all fall down.
NecromancyI wanted to see what makes a human heartbeat,so I took a scimitar and ripped apart your decrepitflesh,and inside that primordial ribcage I found nothing butcorruption.And you merely gave a cruel parody of asmile,dug your bloodstained claws into yourchest,and tore out that infestation you called asoul."Analyze that well, my little necromancer," yousneered,fangs dripping with the acid I once begged totaste,"Perhaps you'll be as wise as me once you find thepulse."I could only watch as you sunk back down intoHell,clutching that contaminated Philosopher's Stonehazardously,knowing you had replaced my heart with the poison known as'l o v e.'
They say beauty is only skin deep,so hand over that defected scalpel in your bloodless handsand watch carefully as I peel away this tainted skinto make way for my blackened and corruptedinsides.And everyone can finally seethe grotesque monster that lies deep withinthis soiled excuse they seem to enjoy callinga heart.If beauty is in the eye of the beholder,then why is it that I can't standgazing upon my reflectionevery time I pass by a mirror?
AbsenceShe used to lie awake all nightconsuming letters with voracity;it was the utopian lair she createdto slip away from the turbulent world.Only too soon she learnedthat you can't always hidewithin parchment crevices.(reality always finds you)Even now, when she yearns to fall between printed canyons,she can't help but curse those passive and lethargic days;"It's too damn easy to fall in love with words on a page."
For YouYour heart may bleed diamonds,but they all they see is dust.Your soul may run black with ink,yet they see it as pandemonium.The miasmas you feel in your mind are not discord,but a precious, beautiful gift meant solely for you.The letters care nothowever you arrange them;perfection is perfectionwhen it comes from your veins.These worlds exist for you created them—there is no such thing as“imaginary” as long as you know their universes.Cry and laugh and weep and smile,for the blossoms you water shall growinto a microcosm of your own design.You are a god and a king,a queen and a demon,whose words shall turnheartstrings to gold.Freedom is the only chain you must break in half, life is the only prison you must escape from,and the truth is the only lie you must forget.Vengeful phantoms in a corporeal form walk the earth;humanity will spite you for you let
Poetry is:Poetry is:the adhesive toa fragmented soul;broken wings that still dream ofF L Y I N Ghow snapdragons breathe stardustand orchids perform ensembles.when 'imagination' and 'reality' at last discover ac r o s s r o a d s,and rush to embrace one another with fervent limbs.why gravity seems to f a l l, taking the world with it.what flows through the veins of every pair of [shipwrecked; star-crossed] lovers.who I am; who I was; and who I want to be.
PulsateWhat is a heartbeat,without the heart?What is a dream,without the conscience?What is a word,without the letters?What is a hope,without the faith?What is a soul,without the self?What is a kiss,without the love?What am I,without you?
This Ugly, Beautiful WorldI took a school trip to Europe this summer.To be honest, I don't remember much of it anymore. It's all a blur of rushing through crowded streets and cramped bus rides and crowds of foreign languages. When I look at the pictures, in fact, I can't seem to recall taking most of them. I can't even tell what some of them are supposed to be.Our first stop was Paris, France.I hated it there. It was dirty. Smelly. Crowded. Disgusting. Wherever we found ourselves, disdain was the only courtesy that was shown to us by those who called the City of Light their home. It didn't even matter that I loved each inch of history that was told to us by our guide - I just wanted to go home and get away from the squirming, teeming atmosphere that clung to me like fog on a rainy day.We spent three days in Paris.The first day is nothing but a fractured, bone-weary mess in my mind that consists of walking and walking and eating and walking and listening and walking and walking. The second day is simply bit
skinwalkershe was a vicious prion,anomalous & infectious—my fractured mind was theperfectly unsuspecting host.i was so ashamed of life& you had all the answers."don't let me go,"she hissed each night,coating my flesh in adespondent cancer.(it was just too damn easy to grasp your viral hands.)i know my ribcage is almost on empty& my heart is converting to toxic waste,but i still have a feverish serum in my veins& a voice not yet conquered by broken bones.your plague of malevolenceshall never govern me again.
are my words poetic enough for you?maybe not.because i will never be the fire-hearted girl with remedial stardust lips,dancing with the astral wolves that hunt beneath her moon-kissed skin,with the courage to plant wilting lilacs into every crippled soul she finds.but what if they were?then i would be the ink blots coating the archives of humankind,the fractured jewel tucked away in a catastrophic dragon's chest,and the lyric every mismatched bone engraves into their marrow.if only.
Last night,I broke every bone in my bodyso I could have a reason to drownin the isolated ocean inside me.And then,when my dilapidated lungs finally caved in,I swam ashore and crawled across the polluted sand.Only glass-edged skinand salt-licked eyelashescan help me now.
MelpomeneHear her sing of sun-kissed,heavy-lidded tragedies that rolloff her tongue as sweetly assugared violets and as naturallyas nightfall; but bruise the lungsof those who breathe them in.She is no poet's muse, butthese summer-drunk revellerswill never know better.
Her eyes scream fill in the _____.They saidshe has starvinglittle poet fingers,& lungs-filled withthe heroic heartsof nameless protagonists.But, she criestears of Saturnon too-little-sleep nights,& coffee ringed mornings.They call her vanilla.Innocence,much too ripe to fallwith freckles on herwander(lust)shoulder-bladessinging connect-the-dotblues.
half-moon palms.i fell in love with a girlwho wished on bumblebeesinstead of stars.a girl who wanted onlya worldfor the tiny half moonson her fleshy pink palms.she wasa kiss good night.who only saidgoodbyewhen i was walking throughthe door.just so she could whisperstay safe.
GlacialJanuary wolves stalk her shivering heart;bitter ice-fangs sink into feverish skin.Frost devours slowly, succinctly, shamelessly;yet the howling tossed chains around herpaper-thin limbs and dragged her down.Arctic icebound lips quivering,silver eyelashes fluttering emptily,alabaster fingertips reaching out;frenzied yet frozen and fractured."Drowning," she whispers in a winter song,and places her mouth upon snow-dusted fur."Blood freezing in these frostbitten veins."And then the pack of aurorean wolves bolt away,leaving her smiling in the blizzard of humanity.Freedom.
Wonderland's CheckmateWhen Wonderland comes tumbling down, who is left to raise it up tall?The flowers have stopped their singing, and the children can only cry,So our dear Alice shall dive into the fanciful minds to prove once and for all,Even forgotten memories can touch their wings to a forlorn sky.Because the White Queen is Red and the Red Queen is White,And the Cheshire Cat keeps on grinning throughout the night.Poor little Alice is late, late, late for a very important date,And soon all will be lost in the final checkmate.The cards have all been shuffled; the die has been cast,The castle walls have slowly been meltingAnd the summer’s moon seems it will not last,For in the winter’s fiery gaze, all is smelting.Because the White Queen is Red and the Red Queen is White,And the Cheshire Cat keeps on grinning throughout the night.Poor little Alice is late, late, late for a very important date,And soon all will be lost in the final checkmate.Her blade is at last ready, her armor c
She Can't Help But Feel Itshe can't help but feel it, that sensation of despairalways creeping beneath the barriers of false cheershe can't help but feel it, that loathing all for herselfalways concealed behind a smile which she's painted on with stealthshe can't help but feel it, that yearning to hate the sound of laughteralways threatening her carefully-crafted walls to completely and utterly shattershe can't help but feel it, that terror as she gazes upon her reflecton; which is usually the keyalways making her say the words over and over again in her mind"that isn't me"
I Was In A Bad PlaceI’ll indite my crude and clumsy rhymesFrom my place in the pitch darkAnd will wait all night if needs mustFor that one creative sparkThat will manifest thoughts in my mindInto a charged lightning boltStrike my memories, open my woundsAnd let writing be my saltSo cut me and see the metaphorsFloating around my blood streamPour salt on the literal lesionsTo punctuate my primal screamAs painful at first as the memoryBut after the initial stingWounds will heel, leaving only scarsNumbness replaces everythingThis lack of feeling is temporaryAs a writer I live for the painOf opening up new abrasionsTo keep me lucid and saneDeviant words in dank surroundingsDisturbed thoughts I can not wasteI apologise in retrospectBut I was in such a bad place
Part-Time HookerI inhale smoke and dirty thoughts(sleeping with a waste-of-calorieswith no sex appeal. her heartdoesn't beat the volume ofsmell increases as it'sgetting hotter than a fever heat I don't mind hercold hands around my -- burned out lights form asilhouette; film this onscreen like a dreamyou can watch or hear.but she doesn't scream; her bones suffocate meas she's wrapped aroundmy body -she's stiff, cold, dry.sleeping with a waste-of-calorieswith no sex appeal. her heartdoesn't beat. )Until I can't breathe.
i can make you love mewriters,what thoughtsdo you bend inthese cathedral-ribsshaking with leaves?(self-conscious,headache) shopping neonfora sinner's devotionor that boyin the other aisle (i hold your booksand stroke the pages,suddenly frightened) 'excuse me'they haven't arrived:(that was forty-fiveminutes ago) blushing andhoping no one noticesthat i've read thisbeforeas i watch himslip behind the counter (i devised a plan tovolunteer on fridaysand trap him) as i readsentence threefor the fifteenthtime
lung canceri will die with your name on my lipsbecause there is nothing else i'll need to say.you are my coffin, my funeral pyre.as my bones disintegrate, popping and snapping,you will greedily swallow my ashesuntil nothing is left of me but secondhand smoke.i've danced with you, love, across hospital tile,the scent of antiseptic cloying as valentine's chocolate.you dipped me into unconsciousness,and i willingly closed my eyes.the intrusion of your scalpel teeth no longer scares me.you, my rigor mortis soul mate, always take me under.your tent of frostbitten shelter pulls me down, an anchor,while i gag on pills too abstract to save me.forgive me, lungs, of my cigarette abuse,but i've found happiness in a reaper's cloak.i find comfort in these carcinogens.i've made my nest in a swaying tree,my body destroyed by the nauseous rocking.they smile at me with pity in their eyes,scribbling nonsense on those jaw-like clipboards.their crisp, stark white world still has faith in me,yet
Snow White SyndromeI seem to have forgotten the sound of my own heartbeatSplitting apart my limbs I've found the source of my insanityCoiled around veins and arteriesStar dust and a lazy man’s drugHas put me to sleep under fictitious pretensesOf forbidden apples and two faced prince charming’s
Crumpled upWhen you open me up,un-crumpling folded pagesI am with you In spirit and in love.Now give me your most dearest and warmest of hugs.Think that of me your personal angel; let your wings soar.Radiating from your pocket, happiness that you may adornTodays' hardship are gone, i'll chase them away.Your personal wizard, your very kind sageEvery false hope I'll try to mend, like my pages that you bendNow crumple me back up, until you need me again
Life on Earth“Life on Earth”El amor implica un riesgo, sentimos vértigo y a veces lo rechazamos.Porque eres la luz de mi camino. Porque eres el sueño, de mi destino.Incluso podemos destruir el amor cuando el miedo es más fuerte, lo saboteamos porque necesitamos protegernos del poder exorbitante que ejerce sobre nosotros.Porque eres la única que supo llegar a mi corazón. Porque eres la única que supo cambiar mi razón.El amor invita a salir de uno mismo, a abandonar la comodidad de las manías, a cuestionarse "quién soy".Porque para mí fue una dicha el haberte conocido. Porque para mí fue un milagro el haberte besado.Esta es una forma muy sutil de muerte, una muerte simbólica…Antes de que piense cualquier cosa de mí, déjeme decirle que en ella encontré más que una sonrisa; encontré más que un beso; más que un abrazo; más que un te quiero
rain.i still have buckets in my roomfrom when you poured your heart out.plastic pails full of pain and loveand lust and tears and names and smiles.i don't know why i keep them...maybe i hope one day you'll come backto claim them.or when i'm being really dumbi let myself hope that you'll come back anywayfor me.
Alone in this world.Are you okay? Yes, I am.Are you afraid?Yes, I am.Will you ever be afraid of nothing? Will you ever be completely happy?Someday all your feelings will stop roughingAll of them are becoming scrappy.Being okay is not what it seems"okay" is a word of slothit may be a word of dreamsbut mostly it's a word of both.Sadness and reclusion.
Loneliness:a limbless spider entangled inits own web,writhing and awaiting tobreak free—only to be devoured by the fly.