dead and gone

i see nothing.
i feel nothing.
i start a new life that holds
emptiness and i hold
chills in my hands
i see nothing.

i feel nothing.
yesterday blew away
and i am not looking
back because there's
nothing to look back on
i look forward to a hollow road

nothing is calling for me
i see nothing.
i feel nothing.

smelling chlorine and
overdosing on dark dark thoughts
listening to the same goddamn song
dead and gone
i see nothing.
i feel nothing.

i do not intend to wake up from
this spotlight dream of
a new me
an empty me
i see nothing.
i feel nothing.

and it's better this way.

mother told me

I'm just garbage dumped
by the roadside, I'm just the
picture on the wall they never notice,
I'm just how it's become, I'm
just the broken
glass of fused light bulbs, I'm just the girl
stabbed and forgotten, I'm just the debris of
explosion, I'm just the one who's
walked out on life, I'm just the one
who's lost her life,
I'm just the one who was born too easy, I'm just the accidental
suicides, I'm just a prayer ignored,
I'm just frozen memories
broken, I'm just a moth that loves
the lights, that blind
that kill.

There are still comforting days when
I think of dying
like sunset skies.

notes, write notes

i scribble i scribble i scribble
i want to say things i want to do things i want to
be things i want to

let me be.


34 flashes of light

i am scalding my skin to find what
else is beneath it,
curling up on loose hair on the floor, watching
smoke escape my fingertips like dirty
secrets, dirty emotions
i try to hide under piles
and piles of transparent sheets

i still see right through me.

there are a number of things that still
flash under my mind like
the smile i fake when i fake i am
happy i am a pathological liar because
i feel real being somebody with
colossal stories, i am my own coloured
canvas that hurts my eyes because deep down i
see nothing but a monochrome dead-end.
i have succeeded in trying not to
cry, because my eyes now hurt
when i feel the prickles i spit out
i am dead deceased in my own world
where things no longer
exist like poolside memories
and love love is dead
love is
dead love
is dead.

i feel revived when i feel cold. cold like
english wind slapping you in the face.

the lights are burning out and i smell my
own sin i can see myself better in the
dark, because i am parallel to torn sheets of paper
and ripped emotions and
a pitfall.

one thing i hate about depression is
you can't pretend it's not there
because you can so obviously feel
it poisoning smiles and killing
sparkles of dreams that once mattered.

i still can't sleep what
do I make of me now?

the heartburn theory

raging emotions.
lock up. pile up. hide away.

everything is clear

you know things have changed
when you forget to look in the mirror
when you have to take pills
when you take a drag and
don't really care about saying 'fuck'
in front of your mother, it's never the same the way
i wake up in the mornings
not from sleep but
clogged spots in my mind
where you once dotted with red ink and
carved your name on my brain
like aboriginal art

you i was maybe
but never will
i try to stay in a place
where time does not exist
for time is an illusion, they
tell me
so i try to make it stop
but i find myself skipping the parts
i wish to be in
life is drifting away like
seaweeds from a shore
and i'm following through
spluttering like
a helpless piece of

i sneeze a little louder but still
nobody hears me
i am getting old
i am getting deaf
i am getting blind
i am getting dumb
because i forget how to speak
and i don't see beauty
because i forget how to smile
and i forget how to feel

sun burns
dragon flies
heart breaks

i dream graphic dreams like head splattered on
car windows and splinters in your eyes
and they wonder why i do not sleep
those ignorant, innocent, happy fuckers

there was a time and a place where you had held
my life in the palm of your hands
and there was a time and a place
where you dropped me

and it's an abyss of which i can
never stop falling
so i try to space myself away from
and tear my soul apart like
how i did your love letters and photos
and movie tickets and your smell your memories
your life your life
i divide uneven proportions of myself
so perhaps when illusion breaks away and
i hit the bottom
it wouldn't hurt as much
for i'd already be broken.

blank paper

several dispositions several
conditions like the way

I like it a lot but am
sickened becaused
it makes me giddy 
until I am

weaker than broken
showing me what nothing
is, and nothing
feels good.

several figments several
fragments cut apart

because I tear things
up so I can feel

whole, like the palm
of my hands that
hold nothing
and nothing

feels good.

Originate From The Park

Though we are under surfaces and
unable to connect
we will still find time to 
regenerate dead things
inside us
we'll put plasters over our hearts 
and sing "Don't Worry, Be 
Happy" - jumping cues and
high jacking planes
Though we no longer say
'cheese!' and smile for 
we will still find 
moments in us
to be content
we'll stretch out our painful
thoughts to make space for nothing
because we don't need
reasons to be happy
without reasons

a halinot production. :)
for you, haziq


I am a full born hypochondriac. But I cannot breath. But I am real. But I cannot breath. But I am real, not real, real. I am?

I try to suffocate in cigarette smoke so I can fake surviving life, it's sick, I know, fucking sick. I float on dirty, grey clouds of my dirty, grey thoughts, where is the sun? I am a product, property, proprietor of my own demise, I cannot see further than where I stand. Where do I stand? I am the broken shards on your floor, reflecting your distortions. I want to, I want to, I want to - WHAT? I am loose on the edges, my thoughts are distracted like dead symphonies and the shadows of bright lights burnt out. I drown like vegetable in oyster sauce, I am my own peace and my own war. I drown because I want to, I shut myself because I feel safe twisting myself inwards, I stop caring because it takes
and I put enough into learning how to breathe like an average human being. I am trying to be average. I find delight in little things like chocolate and favourite lines of a song, but that's about it, no more. I want what I want, but I know nothing of it, I will go wherever this confusion leads, I don't care much of precise directions. I swallow gutfulls of lies and emit twice as much, I don't even tell myself the truth anymore - you are still beautiful.

Oh, his jawline, his fingers,
the trail of his spine beneath his skin, I don't miss you, I swear. I see you, I see you there, but you are out of reach, maybe it's better that way, maybe not, it's not, it is. The coldness, the cold, it's burning because I have no correct sense, not since the phase of you, what I left myself in. I wallow, I fall, I hide behind walls and pillars and doors of what was once -. I dream nothing and it is beautiful, I wish to be this way forever, I don't wish to, I want to change, but where are the emotions? Eyes cracking like dry leaves, I am dehydrated of my own humane feelings, I dilute myself with self-satisfaction that is non-existent,
I thirst,
I thirst,
I thirst for what's gone.
And that's you,
that's me,
what's me?
Bleak, trodden and

I am used to control, I am
losing control. 
I watch things like rainbows, water and time seep through me and I am overwhelmed by things I can't claim my own. Like bitten fingernails and hair clogging up drainpipes. I never thought razor blades beautiful, anyway. I kid myself in fixing jigsaw puzzles when I don't even see logic in piecing breakable things together, like when he
and danced me through the best hurricanes.
Yes, I tried to do it, I tried to, I had sex with it,
it made me bleed, yes,
the razor blade made me bleed.

I see you, I see you, I don't want you. You are like the stink in Birkenstock shoes and rusty diary keys, I would love to keep you, but there are things people throw away along with torn pages of a chapter. I understand myself lesser each day, and I think I no longer like mysteries. Lurking behind every blink, every step, every twitch of my finger, I can hear it, I hear it. It is the sound of it calling. The sound as hollow as its name, as gross as its meaning.

It will swallow me whole and I want to let it.

Emptiness. Take me.

I have run out of seconds and
third times are never lucky for me.

we are aftermaths

There are things
in its place
bottle caps, air
Indian sugar
But they don't matter
now, do they
now that you're gone
and everything
seems less beautiful
like maybe the hours
when I think of you
and the days when
I think to not
think of you
the days I smoke to not
cry for you
like the days I suffocate
in hours of you you you
and I swallow chewing gum
because the aftertaste
tastes like you.
There are things that
linger delicately
in corners I avoid,
I understand things
like meeting people or
washing hands or
listening to songs that
broadcast my heart
but after you,
the balance can never
sum up,
the plus signs are odd,
the numbers are
disfigured and I
cannot find you
because I don't want to
I want to, I shun
you, I keep you
I become the effect of
your haunting memories
your voice your body
you are the part
of me that I
try to kill mute
you are gone.

a poem
Fiona and I