starlightt1234

Yesterday i attempted to find the means to express my feelings to you, to describe the way it feels when your hair curls round your head like thorns thatching itself upon sleeping beauty's castle, how when your eyes lock onto mine i wish i could throw the key away. And your voice is mellifluous, like birds chirping at sunrise, my day hasn't started until i've heard your call, and you're the sun; the world tipping and singing to your every rise and fall- But despite the million sentiments and more i send to you, none define the faultless paradigm you are or my nonsensical rapture towards your spirit, but there's no need for any explanation

if you asked me why my poetry is ugly first i'll tell you it isn't poetry; it is a self-portrait of words. next i'll tell you i don't use paint for my portraits; i use the blood that escapes my wounds as they come. and sometimes there isn't enough blood, and sometimes there's just too much, so instead of painting i lay there, my mouth filling with iron and salt.

we sent our letters to heaven because we thought maybe then your mother could hear that you got an a on your math test or that you finally stood up to that class bully but i guess you decided that was a waste of time because instead of sending your letters to heaven you sent a knife straight through your gut and you managed to turn that hoary carpet red and now i have to eke out a life where i somehow manage to live without you.

I wrapped an aureole round my head, so contrived to receive absolution, and I threw myself down on my hands and knees, so self-abasing, ad nauseum, playing puritanical, acting vestal, how abhorring, ad infinitum. I did not acquiesce, I                               believed. I believed those apocryphal dogmas, these non-empirical maxims, these obsolete axioms. And then I picked up my feet,        and                then        I            ran. Consider this nullibiety; I don't know where I shall stand at the end of the day. Consider this malfeasance; I left behind everything I once knew that day. Consider this nonage; my actions a

    It's getting harder and harder to push this boulder around.    It's not depression it's a perpetual lethargy. So I'm not bleeding grey I'm just tired all the time. I don't know why I'm so worn out all of a sudden. Maybe it's because I'm so fucking ungrateful sometimes, wishing for that, thinking she should've said this or he should've done that. It gets me so fucking pissed at myself because I got things people could only wish they have, but I've taken for granted. Anger's a waste of time. It just takes up all the thoughts in your head, all the energy in your soul, and turns them black. Anger's a hurtful thing, and throwing rage upon yo

I. I'm so tired of all the sweethearts and young beaus comparing their loves to the stars, the infinitesimal specks of luminiferous ether up yonder, yet I'll chop off all the stars in the cosmos as if they were hanging from a thread in a little boy's room, so you can be the only guiding light in the night sky. II. I'm so tired of all the heartthrobs and exalting admirers comparing their loves to the angels of above, the cold and placid sentinels of immateriality, incorporeality, yet I'll turn all the diaphanous clouds of the heavens into concrete, where it shall plummet from the firmament like its own fallen seraphs and you can rise from the

and your name isn't written in ink no, it's burned into my skin, biting and licking its way up my arm until my skin is black like obsidian, charred like used firewood. and i don't expect you to retrace your steps back into your perpetual hell. no need to make reparations when there's nothing left to fix.

If I'm a mouse then you must be the mousetrap, except you don't need the cheese; your eyes are pits you fall into. They're dark like the night sky, yet they shine like the stars above. I wonder if you notice the umbrella I hold above your head when it rains, but then again probably not; watching you go reminds me of watching balloons slipping from my grasp, and they're drifting up, until pop, and you're gone. Maybe you're just a graveyard, harboring dead souls within your body, and your voice is a death sentence. Maybe your mouth is my coffin, and your love is a blue rose, so wonderfully impossible, reaching for it will have me falling l

Parents fighting again. Earplugs on. Again.

maybe your heart is just made of tar; all it ever does is pollute. the starless silt is asphyxiating; funny how something so dark can be my guiding light.