Storm

The sky is grey.
Left unpainted, abandoned
By your hand as you
Coloured my soul
In watercolour radiance. 

Flying Cars

There is something romantic
About self-destruction,
You once said.
That should have been my first warning.
So I shouldn't drop diamonds against my skin,
In penance for your departure.
For birds aren't meant to be caged,
And reality is a gilded.

Modern Mentality: Three

To Do List:

-Inhale
-Exhale
-Repeat

A Series of Poetic Statements.

My eyes are sleep-blurry, but I can still see the pores of your skin breathing under the moonlight.

*

The night us dark, scattered with clouds of violet smog and frozen lanterns that hang from streetsides.
My breath stinks of your disappointment, again.

*

A hail of bullets splatter down, frozen capsules that drum relentlessly against my ungiving skin, a beat to my pulsing rage.

*

I'm all messed up, someone help me, my distorted eyes see nothing but my fading edges of perception.

*

Like and amputated acrobat, I am uncomfortable in my own skin,

*

In the loneliest of nights, you are the soft draught that ghosts over my skin.

Happiness

At the edge,
of the abyss. I stand.
No blood, only terror.
Should I venture
into it's bottomless depths,
I shall be wrenched from reality,
and upon me, thrust, shall be
the unattainable.

Modern Mentality: Two

Useless things:

-Phone charms.

-Game shows.

-Telemarketers.

-Reality.

Highschool Infinity.

You...

In a city of cellophane people, origami crowds, are carved from the plastic - a porcelain child with cotton thread hair. Like muddy sneakers in the dryer, my heart beats in it's calcium cage, as your iridescent eyes peer into me, thinking. Your presence is like drowning, whilst watching everyone around me breath.

So I do not understand why they judge your skin, for the ribbons tied into your ivory wrists, for the mauve lines etched under your eyes, your comic-book clumsiness that segregates you from the class. I slave to replace a bridge that never was there, with soft brushes of skin and an army of angry anthologies directed at the rotten hearts that don't exist. Veteran I am not, my one consolation prize is a medal branded into my jaw, a Purple Heart* to fade with time. 

Yet I watch your eyes glimmer, sparking with a laugh, the sunlight clinging to you as I bleed on your kitchen floor.  I can feel your smile against my skin, fire hot against frozen peas and I love you. 


*Purple Heart - A medal awarded to America solders who have been wounded or killed while serving in the war on or after April 5th, 1917. It is the older military medal in the United States.