His sickness stays but his body resilient. It's the thought depraved and the loss of something brilliant. I'll touch your skin and never think of myself: I'm as hollow as I'm thin and I long to be somebody else. There is certainly no sympathy in a world without trust. I can't convey the bliss or the suffering and although I try and try my ( Read more... )

Maybe all that time reaching for the perfection I felt I deserved I'd forgotten that there wasn't anything better than this.

No taste of Heaven's bliss could surpass.
When we kissed we shared an apocalypse.
Heaven met Hell and everything was perfect.
Just for this moment, where tears would not dry,
She had Him and He had Her.
One perfect moment

I’m sick of being fought over and I’m sick of being lied to ( Read more... )

I want somebody who would write poetry to me.

Who would let her emotions run s c a n d a l o u s l y down the pages
like fresh ink in the rain.

We could lie in bed together
forgetting the cold
and the rain
and everything else
that we never cared about anyways.

Because when we fight, it burns,
worse than the saline tears that flow down my face,
worse than the guilt that swells in my throat
and the attachment that's torn me to pieces inside.

It was there that I found my solicitude: my face buried in my palms, my knees arched high. My back pressed hard against a blank white wall. It was there that I found room to let myself go. Head in hands, eyes shut tight, away from the searing gaze of my room, away from the world, away from humanity. It was there that I was alone and knew that I ( Read more... )

I am but naught an oily reverberation reflected again the age-old plexi-glass of some rotting bus. I am scar in normalcy: a spitting image of a cesspool of moral decay. I am accurately aimless and thus I am pleased. Knee high in words and perpetually drown in poetry, gasping for the unobtainable breath; skin wretching with pain. An autonomous ( Read more... )

Some words, promises and vows and even a ring ( Read more... )

It was the way that the girls would look at me then, with vigor in their eyes and passion throughout their bodies, the way I'd learn to always love. I too would look, without condescending eyes, and judge them as my own possessions. Just another object for me to take whenever I pleased. We would lock eyes together and know just a little bit more ( Read more... )

From how things seem,
and the traumatic dreams,
Looks as if the world's gone to his head,
When he wakes up or gets into bed,
He finds himself crying,
Perpetually lying,
Ashamed of how he's dressed,
He's sexually repressed,
With no strength left to muster,
His complexion is flustered,
He bites his nails when he's worried,
His whole life is blurry,
( Read more... )