fire in the sky

our grip is firm and unshaking
bearing familiar life,
like the roots that dig far beneath
the tundra of the earth,
searching through dark clumps of dirt
for permanent life matter
that will allow for the growth of the
most upright tree.

your worn eyes, burning ever so bright
like fire in the sky,
they reach into me with such
and a purity so delicate even
Evil will not comprehend it enough
to pull it down from you.

i see my other self when i look in,
and i understand every unspoken word
that gets caught in the fray of
your breath when we are
wholly and all-encompassingly

there is no pedestal, 
there is only balance, 
for finally, our hearts are
as free as they are full.
the holes roughly dug up and abandoned
are now wide open no longer despaired
nor vulnerable,
as they at last, learn to
let light in.

these words

these words are meant to hit dead centre
these words are meant to show how ugly you are
when the sun sets into the death of your eyes
and you no longer shine
no longer have that mask everyone has grown to love
including yourself.

these words are meant to be answers
but these words don’t fucking exist
these words do not wash the tip of tongues
these words are what asphyxiate and suffocate a soul that continuously 
tries to live.

these words rip your hair out.

these words pull at your ribs
causing you anxiety and nervous deterioration
these words hit you right where your honesty
brews, where your honesty

these words smell like soiled papers
these words smell like pain.

these words are mirrors
these words are mirrors
these words are mirrors

these words hit you dead centre
these words call you out
because you are a coward behind
these smiling eyes
this hearty laugh
this hand you reach out to so many who
ask for it.

these words are your own
they will keep coming
they will keep coming

they will keep coming.

to live, is the biggest breath of fresh air

the mountains move in the distance.
slanting over these trench lines, 
arched and sculpted through the 
wars raged over barren lands. these
front lines hold no army, but allow 
the breeze of my fingertips
to raise the earth from the silence of forgotten
and over trodden senses.

there were wars fought, lost and won
across this battlefield of a being
now making peace in the breaths of aftermaths;
blood that spills can only dry,
and so it does, giving way
for new soil, to dig through for sunlight.
this land will no longer be barren.

i feel these mountains move when i look in.
these windows with their frosted frames
and crumpled curtains, they open
to the frivolous bush fires that yearn to shed light
snaking through the landscapes of a newborn life.

the view is divine. the view is pure.

i will roam this kingdom
without maps
as these paths are best traveled through
muscle memory; deep down,
i trust that it is here
where i have always lived
it is here, in the heart of this kingdom 
where i will carry on living.

though my senses may sometimes be blunt 
and unfamiliar
i trust that it is here
where my soul will take me exactly where i need to be
among the folds of the valleys
where we will meet,
again and again
in eternal embrace.

the man without a shadow
and i,
together we will craft
rivers of words and fields of colours

this kingdom rises
under godly skies;
under our skin and 
under our eyes.

the view is divine. the view is ours.

where gravity fails

the smoke rises.
i am here again, staring at what time has left me.
the dusk is heavy, falling like ash in the wind
from a sky that hangs like broken fences
and wet clothing.
the monochrome folds have lifted
giving way to the colours of a mindscape
that echoes through the plains of what is
long barren and forgotten

all eyes are on me like
needles piercing my nerves
and the angels hide their faces
as their hymns burn to the ground
like the work of terrorists that live in mirrors

this is an unforgiving world
spitting delicate acid in the shy of the night
into the embers of our hearts
look now, look hard into the eyes of the dead
and find life that you will never understand.

lift my shade, see the colours
unfold like maps that lead you nowhere
watch me thaw
from the ice in my heart and fire in my soul
as i dance
as i dance
as i dance
with the demons

get caught from the outside
get caught from the center of
diseased beliefs and treacherous hope

count me in
count the steps it takes
to frown in the cold face of death
as it laughs at an immortality
you will never learn of.

this blessed curse

i reuse this weight of bleeding carpets
trays and trays of distractions parallel to one another
the truth lies under their breaths
kissed out and sucked into the core of me
i hide in corners forgetting my existence
focusing on my eternal lineage
to let it all out
to let it all out.

black shards of hate
staining my lungs until i
stagger my breath and fall out of line
i close my eyes
turning inside out to
shed some skin from within
draining my veins and rinsing them clean
because being reborn every day
is no easy task
when people take the shine in your eyes for granted
never seeing the way they will
glaze over and turn to stone.

they ask about miracles
they ask about magic.
with every one of those spectacular
breathtaking moments
comes a soul that is breaking
little by little everyday behind the curtains
bearing down by all the weight of
vacuumed pain and brushed up hate
piles and piles of negative debris left over
that don't reach enough light to evaporate out of tangibility
because we live under sunless skies
in the grey that blinds happiness.

shedding skin is never enough
to tamper with the unbalance of
all that still writhe and coil inside me;
this growing beast
feed it or flee it,
the choice is not there, the choice
was never mine to make.


these winds have blown
too long for its wear,
i create energy within each vowel
each consonant, each idea
that hang like ripe apples off a tree
ready to be picked.

certain emotions can stagger,
can shake your entirety,
and these are the emotions we learn from,
these are our mentors
when we face the worst alone.

there are no more seeds to plant
on this patch of trodden, dug up,
ripped apart wasteland,
where everything will have an end,
because death is the biggest certainty
of this uncertain life.

this is a comforting thought
among the rubble and
decrepit landscapes that shape
the world in my hands.

death is coming
it always is
but i will not just sit and wait for it
but let it work hard
to catch up to me
one more time, one last time.
and when it does
it will not let me go
so i will embrace the surrender
the final overtake.

there are no more seeds to plant
on the landscapes of this restless life,
now watch as the rest of us
wither into frail, dried up
images of time.

dancing shadows

shock therapy, brandished
like an angry blade
over love
the blinding shine of sharp edges
caught in the burn of the sun.
there are strangers, dancing on glass
before me,
every step closer shatters beneath their feet
in a disarray of  forbidden colours
for my timely visual feast.

i see it all when i step back
for a clearer view; my schizophrenic 
conversations play back like old films,
my inability to breathe when the tides of hostility
rises over the shore of my calm.

these visions, they leave me stranded on 
the barren plains of my mindscape,
with feral desires, primal instincts that 
teach to inflict or retreat as i encounter
the darkest of memory matter. 
these visions show me the art
of raw survival.

we are the pioneers of our own demise
our own eternal bliss/ the words
get stuck between these organic cogs
placing pressure on unwanted silence 
that dry up our lips, until one day
something breaks in the quiet
sending unwanted sentences hurtling through
the parallels of our sane perception of reality -

here is where we unravel
becoming wholly stretched out
and centered. 

hidden in the folds of time
are intangible pockets of unforgettable consequences
those that are too big to fit in tiny pockets
drop down like bombs
leaving you scattered and scraping for the most basic level
of life on its hinges, covered in the ashes of
broken truths and long-term denial.

these eyes, they watch me from afar
as i ferociously dance on glass ceilings
for all the weight of my being
remembering this time
to never ever look down again.

my eyes burn as i stare into the distant
dark of the night
willing all their surging energies of fear and helplessness
to take their exit before i blink.

the strangers steps out of the haze
familiar figures i have known through many universes.

they show me to forget this heightened vertigo
to never stumble on frail glass by looking beneath
the transparency
because all the underlying unknown matter 
we can't reach alive or have to die for
does not deserve the fall of our rhythm.

rats, bloody rats.

these scurrying bastards,
foraging deep inside the guts of my mind
where the pillars still stand strong in their places
whilst their marble tiles crumble,
stripping the surfaces and unveiling underlying structures
that built this mind fortress.

this is where the weak lay to rest
in silent wonderment
and lies find themselves tucked into the cracks on the wall.

this is no safe haven
this is no hiding place
merely a temporary refuge
where you either accept that the world is deteriorating around you
or carry on lying to your sweet, naive self
because everyone is a self obsessed cunt like you
taking everything for granted.

everything is creaking
like the doorknobs that hang tired and abused from their hinges
leaving doors ajar that breathe in their frames
and lead to fucking nowhere at all,
so don't be fooled, my friend, because this
is not a strategy game, this is not a puzzle,
whatever you choose
will always take you
back to you.

judgment day in cups of tea
swallow it all, for when your lips are dried and cracking
from this coarse reality,
nothing will quench this undying thirst,
life as you know it will become a mere mirage
of truths, truths, truths never
to be realised, only to be dreamt upon.

these purple days and satin nights
they give me visions that glow like cheap lampshades
though it is my mind that suffers
this is the best place to get lost in;
these crumbling pillars, they hold my sanity
like a prisoner
like a foreigner.


i feel like crumpled paper
watching the days pass through my pupils like
blinds blocking out the sunlight
as these fingers tremble like leaves
in the passing of unforgiving winds

i align myself to the rhythm of old washing machines
and heavy music, segmenting
the little trails of what is left of me on different corners
for cobwebs to build defense over
until the day comes where i will pick up the
shattered pieces like breadcrumbs
and put myself together again


this is an unbearable time
everything is rushed and raucous
the words fall like rain
on the fray of conversations left unfinished.
the bitter cold
meets my fingertips
clogging my breath and piercing my lungs,
it is the cold of misery, haunting
but endearing, like the ghosts of loneliness
seeking comfort in your peripherals, like a witch on fire
casting spells to fend off her agony of an honest existence.
scream aloud, scream aloud, scream until
your voice breaks into a million discordant notes
that rings out to the dissonance of
an uncouth rage.

everything stalls at once
these are the moments you hear something
in the distance
so i keep going, keep going
keep going
run fast, and run out of breath.


the lights are flickering a dreadful fluorescent,
this is the color of a blind man's soul,
playing mind games and eye illusions that keep the world at
a double vision.

the demons lurk in the shadows you  build for yourself,
the demons, they lurk and smirk, and dance around the sleep you learn to abort,
giving birth to night and shadow puppets that
tell stories of your impending death
egging you on to play
to play.
my friend, succumb to this,
for pain is so much easier to understand than
a full and flourishing
hope is for the weak
hope is for the weak
hope is for the weak.

wake up, shake up - rape yourself
and become the bastard child of your own
mind's abandonment.


these guts ache.
they ache like the end of the world,
they form beautiful disasters in the sky
of a catastrophic mind that survives through
the sufferance of others.

the sudden crash,
i ask you, what is it worth?
this twist of a story that ends almost always
in imminent damage.

light refracts into the pores of my skin,
pinching at veins that feeds out a dead crimson hue,
everything tastes like iron and stale bread,
casting shadows on the spine of every matter,
these shock and awe exhibits
they scare, they intimidate, folding into the corners
of this origami perspective

these scurrying bastards
knew exactly how to pick up
from where they left off.

i stare at the damage
laughing, crying, screaming
and immediately become the witness
the victim
the perpetrator, and realise my statement alone
is enough to put me away for life
but it is times like these when it is clear
that is is easier to take the blame
for all the wrath the world has to offer
than to keep running.


sometimes i am sick of talking to you
and you and you and him and her and them and us. 
there is a language that lives within silence
communicating so much more
as it takes the wheel and steers me in directions
i cannot find on the tip of my tongue.

i can feel it in the distance
growing and breathing in the corner
where i place unwanted objects 
under the blindspots and shadows
it is watching my every move
in sheer mockery.

it is waiting for the moment i do not need it most
to plunge back into my life
foraging through the thoughts i have left untouched
throwing them all towards my direction
like unfinished duties left like unwashed clothes
at my feet
forcing me to look at all the things 
that are wrong with me right now.

it is waiting to laugh in my face.
this language is brutal in its honesty
but i have learnt the art of conning the truth before.

this dirty, dirty contraption of heavy, crass pockets
filled with nonsensical thought-process
will one day dribble unto the forefront of my sight
until it is all i can see
and i become blinded 
once more
by a ruthless mind that does not forgive.

these unbecoming noises
they wake me up
they always wake me up
with their anguish and chaotic brilliance
urging me
they want me to respond
they want me to hear it all
to sift through the layers of a sickening black
until i am no longer myself
but an actor playing out the script of a twisted
addictive mind with nothing better to do 
than to infect its darkness
upon the lightest of shades.

but i have learnt the language of neglect
thundering through these waking days
where slumber is tucked into cracks for spiders to 
make home
and everything will taste like wine and tea for a while
as i stare into skies searching for moments the ground cannot give me
whilst this heavy mind screams its unnerving notes
its song for the restless
its song for the wicked.

everything rippled.

this is fucking bullshit. they warned me that this will come, but people are not aware that this is a constant stream of white noise. there is no good enough reason for me to feel like this, but i do anyway. i am unhealthily stubborn. deep down, every inch of my being is addicted to the mental abyss of fucked up thoughts and suffocating truths we just want to neglect and neglect and neglect, as we sink into the pit of distractions, distractions, distractions. i am going crazy and it is so fucking obvious but everyone just doesn’t have a fucking clue, and that is my fault, that is my fault because i make it look so fucking easy to handle the broken pieces of constant bullshit with care. i make it look like i am capable of holding the weight of every fucking problem and everything that is wrong with the world, i make it look normal enough because i do not want people standing around me with arms at the ready in case i fall, i don’t want people to feel the way i do, so i make it look like i am strong, when i am nothing but a liar who gets away with her wired state and constant fatigue. but i am not capable. i am not capable of holding even my own problems, therefore i am not capable of holding your problems, his problems, her problems, their problems, everyone’s fucking problems. i hear these words, familiar words, familiar feelings, everywhere, everyday, people trying so desperately to make this depression their own, when in reality, we all share the same fucking issues, we are all potential patients, we are all fuck ups. it never gets easier, it never gets better, and that’s just the fact. stop being so weak. stop being so frail. stop being so trusting. stop blaming, stop pointing fingers, stop being dramatic, stop judging, stop believing your own bullshit, stop challenging people you care about because they will never appreciate it, words fall as easy as rain, worth so little they aren’t even worth listening to anymore, because people will always choose their self pity over self reflection, because we are all time wasters, because we are all pretentious, because everything alive will die eventually, because some days, everything is a fucking lie.

i cannot decide if this is bearable. i cannot decide if this is acceptable. this limbo is killing me. this limbo is killing me. i don’t want to be here, right now, feeling wrong and unparalleled. i cannot breathe, i want to rip my skin off and hang them to dry and i want to dissolve, i want to dissolve into the air and sink into the floorboards, crawl up the walls, seep through the windows, i want to fucking vanish. i want to fucking vanish. i want to fucking vanish like airplanes and children and lighters and people you love. i want my mind to fucking die.

i don’t want to exist in your world. i don’t want to exist in anyone else’s world anymore.


these lips
bitten and bloodied
from frustration
hold the words of ache
that leave my mouth dry
coloured in wine as they 
bracket over cigarettes 
suffocating pleasure
moving silently
screaming words 
cutting through my mind
these arms these legs
scarred and tired
from the tugging 
the pushing and pulling and prying away
of everything trying to crush inwards
like the dark that 
curtains keep in
loud and forceful
these thoughts 
rape my mind
feeding my own poison
to the worst of my being
until all is heavy
bruised like 
these knuckles
this feigned happiness
always an easy disguise
they will believe 
the weight of a laughter
over the waves of tears
turned away
these eyes
squinted and sorrowful
they shine for 
they shine for 

"seems like a relapse", she said.

my guts churn like they want out.

it would be such a sight
to sever every limb from bone
and pull it all out for a better look.
perhaps then i can find out the colour
of my mind, for there is clearly poison
seeping through it and i would like to 
get to know this little sneak a little more.

my blood curdles,
i gag.

i am sick at the sight of 
this colourful spirit, fooling itself 
with its flight, though it will always only be
three feet above ground,
chained at its ankle to its
black, black alter ego,
lying face down and hopeless,
wishing it all away.

the thing about black, is it can wash over any colour
because black is fucking contagious.

i am my own cancer. i am the kind of crash that kills 
both parents and child. i am 
that drunk driver. i am the little boy 
at either ends of the rifle; 
which is sicker to you? pick it. 
i am the abortion, 
dripping down her legs 
and sucking life out of her. 

i am the one that laughs at
someone else’s depression in films
because it is funny
when you can relate, the one who 
smiles at the darkest, sickest of thoughts 
when i hear them said aloud, because 
it feels like somebody is speaking my language. 

i am the whirr of a truck, flying over the edge. 
i am the broken parachute. i am crumpled 
and corrupt, like the tax forms of the poor, 
like the insurance forms of a dying man 
who never missed a payment. this blackened state 
is irritating, 
like an itch you cannot find in
the sides of your fingers where the nerves 
seem strangled and sometimes feel like 
it might be easier to just chop the entire bloody thing off. 

i am fucking black.

i would hate to be an axolotl, in situations like 
these, where i wish for this pain to be a 
stump. but i suppose the advantages 
of ever-growing pain is you’d have severed yourself that many times 
you stop feeling it.

but i still feel it, so i am tired of it. i cannot disregard 
the surging anger screaming neglect, 
and i am running out of ways to 
churn it into positive action, one after another 
after another after another, like waves, growing 
and growing until it will one day rise above
where i am paddling by shore
and swallow me whole.

i will be so exhausted, when this happens,
i will just throw away that beaten down piece of wood 
i am holding on to for dear life
and let myself sink to the sea bed
where everything is quiet and composed.

where everything finds their end.

waiting for dust to settle.

i catch myself staring.

i am staring into cupboards that hold the past, onto the vineyards that once breathed passion, i am staring into the hems of these sheets, onto pages that hold a different handwriting to mine, i am staring at the porch that swallows stars during the night and catches the sun, i am staring at these wallpapers that bracketed in photographs, and i see clearly, what memories can do to a human being’s threshold of pain,
when i look in the mirror
and do not recognise
who is staring,
staring back,
that very moment with
eyes placid and dulled,
shoulders pulled and exhausted.

these lines were drawn with 
dotted uncertainty,
the ebb and flow does still push in
too much,
until i bend with its tension.

my mind is its worst enemy,
i have long learnt to stop blaming
external forces and you, him, her, them
for my mind’s own demise.

to the man who 
struck and struck and struck, 
you are not the cause of my fear.
i am the cause of my own fear,
for i took it, and took it, and took it.

so i throw it all back,
i throw it all back in,
like swallowing dirt,
because i tell myself
it is the good that counts.
it is the good that counts.
it is the good that counts.

the big bad wolf will not howl tonight,
the big bad wolf will not howl.

my mind is on fire
as i lie asleep,
amongst the throws of visions.
i have always slept through treacherous times,
which makes it harder to get away
from these wretched mares, that burn
and shrivel my thoughts until
my eyes, my skin and my strength melts.
i wake from these bleak and self concocted spells,
cowering, sweating, weeping.

but spells will wash away, eventually
and i hope the tides will wash me away with them.


there is no middle ground to when an earthquake hits.
the plates shift,
hurtling through the plains,
a monster with its heavy feet,
destroying years; everything in its way
will be left

those untouched
thank their gods it is not them as they
step back and stare from their safe place
with their piteous sighs and
while some will feel awe at the courage of survivors,
many will feel pain for the loss of

you are lucky
if you can catch these earthquakes
early enough,
but when it shakes your balance
and throws you off your feet,
you are left 
picking up the pieces and 
rummaging through the debris
searching for every little segment of yourself strewn
amongst the aftermath.

you will learn 
to build yourself back together,
but when you have shattered
like porcelain,
there will always be gaping holes
in your entirety,
that will cast shadows
and also 
let light in.

when you find yourself
fingers deep in dirt
scraping for a piece of you
you cannot lose,
you will almost always,
find other broken pieces
that fit just as well,
and learn to fill yourself again.

the earthquake is swift and unfazed,
the shock that never quite sinks in
until you feel the weight of its aftermath.

but aftermaths, too, will become the past,
and where will you be when that happens?

worldly acts

these breaths are urgent.
my heart is rotten sometimes
seeking life through every beat
but i feel this.

i can feel the panic churning like
ecstasy in the air,
the smell of rain that tastes like shock
and feels like hands grasping at your skin
for affection. 
this breeze is hanging off my spine
whispering sweet nothings
as the sun undresses layers and layers of-

i can feel beautiful
at times like these
as the ground falls away and i fly.

these phallic towers
penetrate into the clouds that move
like muscles in the sky,
and i sigh, watching the world in its
nakedness, becoming one in a single
fleeting moment.

ties that bind us free.

this is always home.

the clouds have sunk beneath me,
beneath these feet that have travelled
along the most dangerous paths
and ran many miles away from the weight they carry;
these feet that have slipped and fallen.

now i am stood, catching my breath,
solitary but never alone.

the skies have stretched beyond my horizons,
and falling down to our world
where everything has an end
are raindrops that hold life that shine
effervescently, so everlasting,
they become the tears that knead their way
from my eyes, into the palm of my shaking hand,
tired from trying, but yearning for more.

this is home, the haven that no disaster can shake,
where i look into the knowing eyes
and remember,
where all was safe.
where all is safe.

sometimes, it is the moments 
often misunderstood at surface level
that is most pure and increasingly

though we all stray at points in our lives,
i’d never forgotten this home,
which we left to journey unsheltered,
to experience the world and all its
pains and beauty, to love
to love, to love.

we now know,
as the years grow into our eyes, 
our bones and our calm,
that no matter where we land when we
soar forward,
there is always a key under the doormat
that fits the door that keeps
the home we built together,
for us to let ourselves in again.

this is home.
within ourselves,
is where we find immortal love.


these veins once ran dry
and felt the pressure of the world
pushing into spaces too small to bear it.

there are uncertainties in the way
the air smells now
like i have stepped into a
new layer of existence
from the void i had lived.

everything feels blunt within
but sharp like daggers
when everyone looks in.

have you had your daily notion
of living with your eyes sold and used
when all you see are lines 
that never bend
no matter how you try to refract
or reflect?

this weight, it is carried endlessly
like the pull of a tide
expanding and colliding to the shores
that will never hold home to the sea.

i am the fray of loose material
aged with the stretch of wear
the kind that are hastily ripped out
or singed to the edges
unwanted for the part it used to play
in holding something once whole 

these eyelids are heavy
but my mind can’t rest with
the tendencies of being asleep
when the world is awake and 
fervently on fire
the ashes get caught in the wind
like grey snow, falling upon all that was built
and cast out to fall old.

these eyes will never tire
though they feel they have seen it all
and these wounds will grow new skin
and learn with each layer
to abandon hurt

and live again.

wasted electric

the sky is trying to tell me
that the world is ending.

these memories are trying to tell me
that no matter how many different
hats or jumpers you wear or
road trips or shots or lines you
take, no matter how many cups of teas are
drunk cold, no matter how short you
cut your hair, how many kisses
you give a five-year old, no matter
how much jazz you listen to or
songs you write no matter how much
laughter is shared on a watch tower
resting on a London sunset,
you will still break like the pull of a thread
when silence tugs at the very centre
of all this buried pain. it rises to the
surface, scraping under my skin
like cockroaches, and i scratch,
clawing into the layers and layers of
all i have lost with this, finding the point
when i hurt more on the outside
than in.

these shelves wane, like the weight of demise
and i think of my mother and how i stayed awake 
waiting on a call to tell me she will be fine
i think of the words that cut into messages i do not want to read or feel anything for
because i remember the voice and its anger
i think of four weeks ago. 

i tear up the letter thanking me for
telling the doctors that i think i am going insane.
i tear it up because a thank you doesn't make the anxieties go away.
i tear it up because a thank you is not the same as an apology for the two minutes of "i cannot do anything to help you" and "you've dealt with it for years, i'm sure you can find a way to deal with it until we decide if you really are not okay".

the thoughts i hastily wrap to myself draw blood
as they unravel,
and the crack of dawn
is trying to tell me
that it is fine to shut my eyes
even if everything is too bright.

i cannot take away the beauty of it all,
and that is what hurts most,
because it is easier to let go 
of something you no longer bear to face,
but the truth is,
when you have nothing to despise and
a lot more to appreciate over a heartache,
 it is unforgivable and much more is at stake
because grief is simply when you lose something
you cannot bear to stop loving.

the sky is trying to tell me 
that the world is ending.
these memories are telling me
that somewhere in my mind,
it already has.


there are paper figures that dance around
and cut my skin, with the way they
eavesdrop and take only half the story
running circles like ants 

i wish i could light a fire
under them until they fall like rain
into a pile of assumptions gone dry
and catch their ashes onto the purpose
they cast out onto the streets

these paper dolls
they hum like witches
they flap like eyelashes 
trying to keep awake
these dancing flakes
they tear
they tear
they tear

where has my peace gone?
this work of art that once grew and grew and grew
all ripped up and caught in the wind
whistling melodies i cannot recognise

paper eyes
all around
open, shut
open, shut
take them off me,
take them out of me.

the saddest eyes in the world.

the world dropped like hail,
the miscalculated momentum sending
horizons askew, breaking
car windows and skin,
she watched every head turn to watch the sunrises 
that never settled in the sky,
she watched everyone forget the moon
and burn like plastic,
falling from the corner of her eyes,
every tear was a corpse that never saw the sunset.

their graves are drawn in red
along the days that hang like washing,
the places that hold her together 
are constantly choked and full of voices
she doesn’t want to talk to.

thunder eyes,
blacker than night,
loud and angry,
sharp like daggers
when they touch their reflections.

there are sighs that linger
under her earlobes 
and inside her cigarettes,
forming within the storm clouds 
that will eventually
break into torrential thoughts,
churning within her entire being.

this mental hurricane,
causing a screaming stir;
she will awaken then,
with sheets that sweat and fists 
whiter than death.
she will awaken then,

but she will still weep.

used canvases.

there is room for more,
here, in these idle hands
that have left home;
these hands have sculpted mountains
but they are tireless, still.

the sound of breathing 
in a dying night
rustles through cracks in the wall;
the bed time stories for the sleepless
drifting into the veins that pushes
the flood of
one thousand two hundred and thirty seven days

surrogate eyes,
they lift my burden,
when i choose to look the other way
from overflowing ashtrays
and rain.

confiscate this mind,
that holds no more reservation
for this all-encompassing sorrow.

time trickles from the edge of my thoughts
like honey from a spoon.
every second takes with it, a bit more
until soon, all will be aired
on the clothing line of memories,
and this pain
will dry
like leaves that have reached their summer’s end. 

... but memories.

the skin sheds;
i wanted to keep it
over the chill in my bones
like a paper mache shield
and keep new skin from shaping me

but when you realise you are part of a world that carries on
you suddenly feel the pull of the wind
fiercer than ever
until you cannot stop the skin
peel like old wallpaper
lifting away like fall petals

as i feel the chill rise
i am suddenly open and bare
i feel all, raptured by midnight melodies
lingering through the twilight mists
serenading a heart
full of dull ache with healing powers
and I remember the burn of
effervescent passion
when it stings your eyes
i feel the burn clogged within the deep tangles of
my self.

this is an ode to the skinless bones
the leftovers of unnatural disasters
with burning guts and a handful of despair;
carry on
without this stagnancy 
for it is much easier
to move as a part of
than to be left behind
with nothing…

fragile skies

The universe has fallen
Crystallized into fragments 
That slumber within a soul
Chilling the body that bears it.

She shivers in salute of the forlorn night
Bathed in the melancholy of her blue moon
Finding solace in the center of all the darkness that she will have to embrace.

This path will be cloaked with familiarity
 But her heart will be heavier than her last plunge down.

When all is still, she can still smell
The soft of their being 
faded like the musky memories she decorates with dust and cobwebs 
Like they are not of a recent heartache.

Her promises lie unkept in the back of her throat,
The seasons drop like icicles from the sky of her mind
And she listens to the Devil cry 

Because this is more hell than even he can take.


these eyes are angry today
shrouded with a clump of late night thoughts
and consequences that grab at her gut
and forces her to scoff in disbelief.

she sits awkwardly,
a foot half in a shoe, the other crossed;
trying to balance her tested spine
so it doesn’t bend like 
habits and promises and words that mean nothing.

this is a dying era for some,
the sun is out of phase,
everything in sight is refracted,
like friendship and honesty,
the loose bead in the machine,
spinning out of control in a place out of its own.

what is choice? 
there are no coincidences,
and my judge of character has always been true
in the long run.

these eyes are angry today,
and they see everything.
this skin is angry today,

and it feels everything.

alone with the sunrise

the sun swelled over the naked branches this morning,
washing over the blue with a striking orange,
and i thought of you.

i thought of you 
and felt like the callous nature of the wind
carelessly sweeping leaves off the ground and
hurling them back to gravity’s hold,
i thought of you 
and pictured the dance of a bird whose wings may forget to
learn my lifts and drops as it tries to fly endlessly.

i felt the universe graze my cheek
and the branches waved forlornly at me,
so i used my strongest will to 
routinely transfer all i feel 
but most importantly all my will out to the atmosphere
i thought of you,
hoping those energies seep in through the window
to land on the curve of your sleep and settle on your soul
letting it grow like a tree that will age magnificently.

i remember the park,
with sun like this
burning its mark on your skin
as you couldn’t take your eyes off me,
i wonder if the note we left buried under the tree 
is now part of the earth and air
and i wonder if one day,
this will make sense,
and we will find our way to being

balanced like everything between earth and air.

in short, the end.

(alternate title: like cracked shells) 

my insides feel gutted even though
binge smoking and binge eating 
usually offers the contrary.

i have been staring at a wall
that stares back at me.
these walls shut me in, unable to escape
even the most sinister of my thoughts
as i lie awake at night listening to others fall in love,
ignoring the window that overlooks where all this began.

the flashing oven clock is blinding in the darkness
the time is all wrong, but then again,
everything is wrong
like how my boots rubbed my skin raw all night
and every cigarette i rolled was unsatisfying,
and there aren’t enough distractions to dry these eyes.

this heart will never break
but it definitely pushes the boundaries
as i sit and begin to piece together the answers
to questions i have no response for.

how does it feel to let go of
everything you have created with the entirety of

how does it feel to loosen the grip when
your knuckles are white and hardened 
from clenching protectively this long?

how does it feel to know you are no longer a shelter?

i knew it was going to rain before i saw the clouds
and felt the frail shiver of a first drop. my greatest
and worst intuition; to predict when the universe is 
about to wane and shed its
merciless tears.
my shoulders buckle under the weight,
i am the tiny insects that drown in the downpour.

but my pain grows like a firm tree,
withered, bent but undying. it grew from 
immense beauty but it disgusts me nonetheless
because this tree will not ever bring me life.

i despise all that i feel.
i despise the person i was, is & will be,
because letting go of all of this
leaves nothing but a cracked and homeless shell,
tampered by an angry world.

i leave this to definition,
not karma, because karma can be forgiving,
and this will never budge,
unmoving like the night’s overpowering glare.

ruins are beautiful,
but beautiful things ruined are 
hard to comprehend,
and that is why i am lost.
ruin defines all i touch,
all i love, all
i become.
the lover, the daughter, the friend, the sister,
the fucking mental case.

the best way to let go is
to realise i created a disaster.

one day i will find it in myself to disappear,
the leaves will stop at golden brown,
the cold air will hold still,
and i will retreat, steadily and silently,

these clocks are ticking
time breathing down my neck;
the world takes pleasure in feeding this monster 
inside me, listening to it screech and tug as it grows.

it is hungry for agony, digging deeper within;
unleashing this psychological beast
will make my physical lack of
disillusioned psychosis and broken mugs
completely redundant.

but perhaps i don’t understand;
done being depressed all wrong
since it took close to a decade for someone closest to me
to ask if i thought i was depressed.

this is when i realise
i have lived in the world’s peripherals for the past twenty-two years.

i have shunned and been shunned by all I believe in,
i’ve kidded myself in thinking i have to be strong for them
and i spent a long time
giving a shit enough to live by that.

but how can i learn the art
of selfishness when i have so much to lose for it after?

unless “after” never comes.
and i will become the sorry case 
everyone else will try to understand.

people choose to stay close to tragedy, 
grasping to be understood for it
with nothing to show;
it is the strong ones who gulp down pain like bleach
and broken shards
who are forgotten.

i never thought i would see the end
of this story mid-chapter,
but there is no story without ink,
and without ink,
nothing is written.

my book closes,
curtains fall.

this is my last.

weightless currents

it was raining the day we met,
i remember the whispers of gold drizzle  
tapering along the sidelight
as it washed over the derelict walls that held the dreams
of unkept souls.

i remember the rain on the soft of your hair
outlining everything that took my breath away;
the air tasted like booze and earth.

the rain has never stopped,
pouring out its centre through the scape of 
heavy emotions,
giving weight to all.

it is a weight of my head on your shoulder
as we breathe to one another stories that
form rings and coil themselves into the air
until all we breathe is of each other.

i have seen the way
the delicate sleeves of morning skies 
unfurl at the end of your slumber
kissing your eyelashes as they 
flutter into another day.

i have seen these eyelashes
flutter in protection over
angry eyes, dry and tormented
when hurt tasted like stomach acid and tobacco.

i have felt the inability to look at you.
our eyes divert behind furious quakes 
that shake the bridge of our consciousness.
i have climbed your walls
as many times as i have built mine,
but somehow there is always a boat 
by the river under our bridge
where we float in silence until our eyes
and the walls wane to the furious quake’s final shudder.

i have grown to understand the ability
of falling asleep with you
and staying awake without.

i recite the mental notes in my head,
and sometimes i do it aloud
overturning my reality of everything i know,
including you
and all the ways i have grown to love you.

when the relentless storms pass,
i remember you.

the rise of your nose,
the fall between your lips 
shying into a smile,
the way your whole body floats on every cloud of a breath.

i remember your stunning gaze
as you searched for my truths,
my hopes, my agony
and my all
between cigarette papers and
warm mugs gone cold.

the way your arms tingle when they meet
delicate friction, and the rough ends of your guitar fingers 
do not represent your gentlest touch.

i have mapped out the geometrical landscape of your back
and dreamt on the plains of your chest as you 
slept in metronomic sighs.

i remember you in utter completion,
and i waver in relief.

i imagine for our love to
age like a favourite book, 
the pages of our story
will curl at the edges, creased at the spine
from experience and good use.

i want to collect every fragment of your
buried hopes
and present them to you in different disguises,
until they become the new hope
that will always remind you of who you are.

there is much more to life
than poems and shadow puppets,
than routine chocolate and jokes that
always bring out a laugh,
than the usual mistakes, the unforgivable buzz in the room
when there are no words left to say,
there is much more to our regularities,
but there is nothing more wholesome
than the way our eyes 
and love is everything.

the rain will fall again,
cold upon my fingertips,
just like the night we met
when our eyes were tired and 
our breath formed clumps of December air
and we grew to listen to our
minds yearning for the warmth and solace of another.

we are tidal waves,
forever on the rise and fall of life’s equator,
but no matter how heavy we crash
on foreign shores,
we will always find ourselves
as one whole form

at the centre of the sea.