Final ReviewFrom the perspective of your deathbedwould you want a heart that was whole?Or a heart that had bled?Torn by lovingbruised with caringthin form beating long after youwere sure it should notScared with healing and breakingand healing againUgly with stretchmarksof growth and expansionpurple with lack of oxygenall love flowing out againas soon as it flowed inFrom the perspective of your deathbedwould you want a heart that was whole?
TNTI, I was a powder-keg of emotion.Rich, uncut, pure massed emotionjust waiting for a sparkYou, you were the flameon a very short fuseFirst we sparkedshimmered for a heartbeatand when we exploded when I explodedthere was a mass casualtyof one
UntitledThere was a sadness in her eyesIt seeped into her fingertipsand with the lightest of toucheslodged itself in my soul
Ritual of FireLust's fingers unfurledat the sight of herlike young flames dancingwith warmth and the promiseof heat to followjust enough to engulf heraliveyet still she watchedas hips swayedunblinking, as eyes metallowed for the slight smileunder the gaze of tempest seaand welcomed the vanquishingof her sanity
FailingsLove failed herthe very first time she thought:She had found herself in the reflection of another's eyes.Had found home under the warmth of another's skin.Had found meaning in words dropped carelessly from (love) drunk lips.Has found safety in the presence of another.
Shards of BeingIt was a husk of a heartset on hatred that met younot to hate you per seBut all that you might offeror beSeeOr discoverIt was a husk of a hearthell bent on not loving youand even in thiseven thisWas broken
By DesignA heart can never be lessthan what is isA heart can nevernot loveSomethingSomeoneSomewhere
The CardsThe thing about life isthat thing about love If you are willing to play the game If you are willing to take that betInvest your heartYourself, your beingYou better get real comfortableReal quick with losing
AssessorI am not the guttered shell fit for abandonment you believe you seeI am built in the land slide of the crumbling facade of your delusionI am the foundations that have rotted in the land fill of your wasted timeI am the cracked windows that reflect the broken light of your jaded sunsetI am the dust coated chandelier of your yearning, curling wires and missing crystalsI am the broken hinges on the door of your peeling trustI am the sharp edges of the rusting sink in you derelict kitchen soulI am the empty shell of the collapsing bed that once knew lovers sighsI am the lifting floor boards of the illusion in the passages of your mindI am not built in the broken pieces of me you believe you seeI am the burnt ash in the grating of your heart, crumbling, cold and blackened with useI am the long grass of your derelict garden of faith, abandoned and littered with filthI am the dripping faucet, the perished washers on the inflow of your loveI am the damp ceiling-boards beneath the
EvolutionEvolutionis a silent process of changingwe realise from the result.It Can't Be The Target.
UntitledGlide through the heavensin hopes to evade the crimson wingsthat holds you down.Be free.When will you shut the pearly gatesand walk away?When will you cut the crying chainsthat paint you grey?be free.Be freeBe Free.
ExelixiΕξέλιξηείναι μια σιωπηλή διαδικασία αλλαγήςπου αντιλαμβανόμαστε εκ του αποτελέσματος.Δεν Μπορεί Να Είναι Ο Στόχος.
LostLost –Like a vagabond.Split – At a four-waystreet, past any signsthat I comprehend.If I had I had it my way,I would cruise on the highwayand never stop.
pillow talkthere are thousandsof tongues i couldmemorize; new wordsfor love tucked betweenteeth often bitingtoo hard.my chapsticked lipscould learn to bow togrammar laws incountries i'llnever visit.i could master writingsymphonies in syntax,spend hours penningvolumes in languagesof longing and love,but i'll never find aphrase that fits youthe way your body fitto mine, back bent.i'll never find a namefor how our lips tuckedtogether, for my handsin your hair, for therapture in your eyes.
adolescenceWe look up into the skyand see the stars as millionsof possibilities for us to wrap our handsaround and try, picking and choosingour favorite constellations like applesin the fruit aisle of a grocery store.We talk about our dreamsof leaving this townfar behind and far away,but we don’t talk about howleaving home means leaving each otherand each constellation we wrap our handsaround propels us into completely differentdirections. We want to hold on to each otheras much as we want to let go of this dustbowl,but we can’t have both,and that scares us.We look up into the skyand see how big the galaxy iseven when we can’t see 90% of itand we are suddenly aware of howsmall we actually are, barely grains of sand,barely specks of dust, barely here at all.We stop looking up and lookdown at our feet shuffling,worried and afraid for each otherbecause we barely sleep and failinga class means failing high school,failing to get into the dream college,fai
Five Reasons to Not Write PoetryI.Sooner or later,It'll mess with your head;You'll be taking a shower, orLying in bedWhen the "inspiration"Hits you hardAnd when you miss the bus and first hourYou have to use the"I over-slept" card.II.It'll have you thinkingAt every point of the day;Twisting words and making rhymesProdding until the language swaysTo your fingertipsAnd theLower case letters nipIn hopes that you'll use themAbuse them until you are atYour hem.III.They will mock you untilYou simply can't think;The words swirling around,They will push you to the brinkOf complete denial,Of absolute insanity;"Yes, I ate enough" and "Yes, IFeel fine" are the words youHave to beat.IV.You will not care how peopleReact to what you say;What do they know ofWhat we do everyday?You think that to yourself,As a way to not seek helpIn the comfort of realLove and not the fake kindYou write of.V.You will lie and you willCheat and scoff and sayNothingFor all your mostImportant words are
What Rape Can't Tell YouHe parrots the word, over and over until it sticksLike the bruises on schoolchildren's hands, when they realize purple hurts more than redWhile others mourn the translation lost in betweenThe definition he wroteAnd what they want to scream to the world.All you know is a word,The hell hidden beneath it is nothingBut the trace of a memory that doesn't belongTo you, and you're so glad it isn't yoursBecause then that pain can just be a word,A beautiful illusion of pretend-this-doesn't-happen andThis-won't-happen-to-youYou deserve prettier words, better words, you thinkOnes that stay silent, can be hidden across a pageVictimless and longer than the four letters they warn you aboutYou don't know how that word is strungOr why they tie chords around their wristsIn protest, why the memories they drag are drugged andFilthy with the crimes that can't be forgivenYou don't know how that syllable can hurt,What it can doYou don't see the gashes in their organsOr the fissures tha
EmbersHer hair was orangeand glowed in the fireturning black and ashnot a single moment laterthe scissors were coldThe embers wereglowing just the samehungry for her tressesthe royal red burnedyet no burn was leftHer hair was shortuneven with amber rootsoutgrowing the dyeshowing her natural shademom and dad took the scissors awayOrange locks tickle her neckfire cannot fight firemom and dad breathe easiershe does not touch the scissorsthough she always looksShe is eighteenleaving home is a blessingher hair bundled in a hatshe does not like to see itthe brightness keeps her up at nightThe hairdresser mourns her hairmore than she ever doesas it falls limply to the groundthe locks have lost their hueshe smiles as they fallIt is easier to tell people she is happynow her hair is goneorange roots don't show on a shaved headshe stands proudly nowshe doesn't keep scis
With YouI'm less alone,but more lonely.