by any other name would smell as sickly

sweet <like a rose blooming>

bloom for me flower

rise for me, you thorn

prick prick prick

shed your petals

and wilt again

Never underestimate the ability words have to:

hurt;

inspire;

perpetuate lies;

fulfil fantasies;

breathe life into subjective perceptions;

and haunt the halls of your mind.

I heard a child crying from inside my womb

Encased and nurtured within his own tomb.

Imprisoned by my one mistake;

A night of passion for true love’s sake.

And though no evidence you’d ever find,

From time to time he haunts my mind.

Sapphire sky envelops earth brightly,

Copper spheres sing their tune.

Balanced, just, charming and kind

But artful, selfish and forever detached.

He held her imprisoned in his arms

As if she was only his

But when the daylight broke anew

So did his indecision.

So let the stars steal the sky,

And darkness always rule,

If it means you’ll love me again

Like you did that night.

He couldn’t stop reading his own work.

That he could write those words!

It was a wonder to him.

He imagined the reactions of his friends, his family

For using that dreaded word.

That disgusting, shameful word.

He could taste their excitement.

And he liked it.

How old am I?

I feel sixteen.

I look twenty-three.

I want to be seven,

Or eighty years old.

Don’t you think that would be nice?

I had a winter fling.

The sun went down early

But our fire was alive

Through the night.

His warm chocolate hands

Held me forever

Till the steam had

Escaped.

Your writing is so pompous.

Fuck you.

I don’t need to use big words to sound cool.

Fuck you.

If we use too many words, the meaning will be lost, and fall into the depths of ambiguity until we are forced to fish them from the deep sea of monotony and equivocality, and all that shit.

Your writing is so pompous.

Fuck you.

I saw a boy wandering lonely

along the path

outside my window.

I gazed up at him

through the glass

but he looked on down

at his feet

wandering,

and didn’t notice

me

staring,

looking up at him

wondering. 

I know what it’s like, to fear your own mind

                                  To be awake at night

                                        Screaming inside

   I know what it’s like, to be wanting death

                               To bring me happiness

                                        To end this mess.          

                                                                   But when I think of the future

                                                                   And the surprises it holds;

                                                                   Laughter erupts

                                                                   At what may unfold.