GalateaSometimes, she is my mistressSneaking in through my window and seducing me out of sleepShe keeps me up past sunrise, whispering sweet promises in my earSilencing me with her smoldering passion, stripping me until inspiration strikesShe makes me sing, until the sheets are slathered in a thick skin of poetrySending shivers up my spine and igniting my senses with her ghostly fingersShe is a lover and a shadow, nowhere to be seen when I wakeSometimes, she is my psychosisSuffocating and strong, I can do nothing but submit to her graspShe seethes, like a snake constricting around me until my sight blurs to smokeSlowly, she consumes me with sick reverence and searing obsessionShe stifles me because she refuses to be restrained, yet I long for her kissSevering haggard breaths from my lips, leaving me stunned and achingShe is a succubus and a nightmare, haunting meSometimes, she is my saintStifling sobs against my shoulder, shaking me until my tears start to fallShe has so much
Bad HabitsS.She always rubs her mouth,like there’s a secret she can’t say out loud.Tracing her own lips to prevent a smile, a frown, or a tear.Sometimes her real smile peeks through, but you can only see it in her squinted almond eyes; dark amber, and soft, just like that bashful grin.Sometimes a frown shows when no one is looking, followed by a wistful sigh and a simple wipe of the palm across that silent mouth, trying to push the bad feelings and words away.Sometimes tears roll past her knuckles; she fails to catch them at the source because she’s scared to wipe her eyes raw, so she brushes them away after they’ve fallen in the crook of her pink lips.She always hides her mouth,as if she’s afraid to speak.M.She never faces you completely,like you’re not worth her full attention.Averting her cold gaze, she walks with a haughty, empty stride.Even when her striking blue eyes are pointed at you, her chin is always tilted up and shoulder
.the sun did notkiss my skinyesterday, he sleptlateshowed hisface around noonand then went backto bed; theearth exhaled
sati(ate)dit's ironic,isn't it? the waythey say "hunger gnaws"like the way our teethscrape against bones.for all thecalories that are counted,you still feelempty. you aren'tbeautiful untilyou are digestingnothing but airand maybe your own guilt.that's just the wayliving is thesedays: swallowingglass shards toslice up your insides soyou can ignorethe other kind of pain yourstomach is feeling.but when people askif you're doing okay you justsmile and nod even thoughyou can't help butthink "if honesty wastangible, i'd eat it rightnow."life hasan acquired taste andsome days you'dlike to rip yourtongue out.
tencourage must be a dominant trait,for how else could you handle a pin-pulled grenadewith such delicacy and patience?
curiouser and curiouserseventeen years &still chasing white rabbits,it's no wonder i've neverbeen in love.we're all mad here;no one can find the road toyesterday.(i don't knowwhere to go)let's fall down a hole.(i'm just a chrysaliswith no butterfly wings)off with my head when itcan only imagine nonsense& clockwork hearts.give me a cheshire's smile-i want to knowwhat it feels liketo be in wonderland.
What Are You To Me?What Are You To Me?:I have walked in this world,And they have told me of kings.Of brave rulers who make the tough choices,Men of example and outstanding character.But it was then that they said,What is a king to a God?What is a mere mortal to a higher power,One who holds our fate in his hands?They said he was benevolent and kind,Wrathful and jealous, magnanimous and selfish alike.He was the perfect ideal, embodying all thingsAnd we were made in his image...It was then that I was laughed at,By he who asked this question:What is a God, to a non-believer?One who lives by the truth he sees...He is the man who acts as per his morals.He lives through his eyes and is judged by his fellows.He submits to no higher being, not a one does he fear;Comfortable with his own conscience...But all three, I beg; I ask ye this:For what is a king to a God,A God to a non-believer,And all three of them in comparison,To the madman who watches the world burn..."I
Pros and Cons1. I am not writing a list of things that will make me hate you, as you supposed, but more a list that would help me move on. I always hated how you were very practical that way, even about emotional distress. I am not writing about the trouble with you being your incorrigible logic, your lack of tact.2. I am not writing this because I have a habit of doing what you say, and perhaps, just maybe this would give me closure.3. I am not going to write about how beautiful your mouth is, and how it seems like something that would have been kisses by an angel.4. I am not going to write about how your voice tremors when you speak of loneliness.5. I am not going to write about how you are worthy of songs and dances and plays to be written for your lack of wonder at war, sex or alcohol, you aren’t that interesting.6. I am not going to write about the day you sat me down and dragged me down with you, just so you could complain about how much I loved angel wings and sketches of pretty e
Not A Pipe DreamI am living in the shadow of my potentialAnd lately patience seems to be in short supplyWhile expectation overflows in abundancePipe dream, is it not enough that I have tried?No, I can not accept that you are a failureThe words you chose were ever so carefully placedIt should be of no importance whatsoeverIf the message conveyed was not to their tasteI am living in the shadow of my potentialI’m in utero but I will be somebody soonBurst through these rusty pipes that corrode my dreamsAnd flood the floor of my creative wombMay I suggest that you are already someoneAnd that each stroke you paint is as desiredFrom your cold creative heart to your burning handIt’s no concern of yours if it doesn’t catch fire
Road SideI want to have an impactthat lasts longer than the lifeof those petrol seeped flowersplaced ad memoriam at the road side.Let my memory last longerthan the roses.
Marinating in the Pervading Loneliness2.37 am sounds likeclenching your jawuntil a crack shoots downinto the nerve endings.The crunch of bonesplitting and separatingand shearing painup into the naive skull,that hoped for something elseto penetrate the malaisecreated by fooling yourselfwith love, with money,with smilesand words.It sounds like biting your tongue -and that flab of meatchunking onto the carpetand violating your chinwith its copperstench syrup,that stains everybodythe same flavour of red -This is what 2.37 am tastes like.Like the only warmth is fromthat cyaniatic bouillabaissecreated by swallowing yourself:your blood, and teeth,and tears,and words.
i haven't forgottentell me, boywho is your god.do not say itis the limbsthat spread youbetween knowingand comfort;do not tell me it ishands wrapping a headboard, nor a mouthtugging your namefor salvation.i want to know who it isthat makes you lucent,bent beneath the dark,weeping,because there is no divinitylike the one that makesyou bleed
OSometimes I think about buyinga ring that represents foreverBut who needs golden bandswhen cold fingertips on my skindraw eternity in shy circles