strike.through.

im back to where I started, come full triangle with a few changes; just a different picture on the puzzle. the main point is that i couldn’t feel it. numb, the quiet mind if only. with nothing but old clichés and jokes repeated over and over until no one cries, no one laughs. the clock moving slower everyday. weird voices from faceless masks. single lines spelling out fate and personalities in crimson. a notebook filled with meaningless words. pale paper thin skin drawn on with permanent neon. black flooding through to sparkles and glitter, drowning out bandaid promises. disorders; sugar and marshmallow prescriptions. music fueled therapy not conscious. disease of normality isn’t enough. auditory hallucinations, keep not listening. balls bouncing off course; a claim by those not accepted, only in the quiet eyes. stay away from the corner, stay away from their thoughts before you cant escape.

day.&.night.

her skin was cold to the touch, or maybe it was his fingers that were chilled, there was no difference. either way she blended into the stark white pillow with the absence of light penetrating through the heavy curtains drawn shut. outside the moon reflected against the broken sidewalk in the starless night.
her eyes stayed hidden under translucent lids. just hours ago, they had sparkled under flashing lights and infectious rhythms.
her awkward bones matched the vapid veins inked in the shallow skin. the blood running down, tracing patterns in the twisted material.
he pulls the sheet up over her head, covering up the crimson crime scene. a sense of closure as the light from the open window bathes him in the warm moonlight as he waits for fate.
the morning brings a knock on the door and icy sunshine. walking out hand in hand with love, having left lust dead in the bed.

mad.hatters.

balancing along the windowsill, he stood in the sparkling sun. a tip of his top hat and a waterfall of raindrops fell as a rainbow into his pocket. he sends his love in sugarcoated roses dancing along the close horizon. sweet moments i wouldnt change for anything; a cherished lifetime ahead-
“Is it speaking of your obsession with coffee and its side effects or have you finally gone mad?”

apparently.i.have.style.

style, what style? pay the exam admission fee and ill be the one making the profit. see how much you dont know. see how unspecific the answer key is. take pictures for your fashion magazine. front page headline so i can kill the scene. clean the blood off the floor before it stains. watch it drown under water and swirl down the drain.

yet.again.not.surprising.

sleep clouds rolling in against stubborn eyelids. photoshoped pictures of imaginary illusions. static crackling through the background voices. hooded authors in the corner writing down the shots as they see them. bullet words killing sanity; social concepts bleeding out black, blending into the starry sky. sick; two hundred fever combined. mentality lost in stereotypical conversation and daily observances. voices too loud, speaking common nonsense. pay attention, pay your time without crime. doesn't help to be prepared when the expectations are unknown, null and void. bossy overtones above assumptions made up of sour sugar. rough calculations over coffee cups, frosting coated taste tests. not enough to make it worthwhile. keep silent, keep them guessing. blindfolded, gagged, bound; tentative touch the only explanation. dance floor drama done to death. lunch hour statistics prove more deadly than fifth. until life do we part, together never in temporary forever.

my eyes burn from being awake. his words weigh down my eyelids, top heavy windows. all day he waits patiently for the sun to lay down its golden head in slumber on pillows of clouds; the world follows at ease by the nightlight of the moon. slip between the sheets into a persona no one would ever guess to know. he waits for his chance to come alive, putting his stitching aside with one final scar before taking control of the dark.

need.something.else.

im folding up, cashing out, waking up, down and out. my minds asleep and dreaming. with nothing more just sleepwalking through the hallways. the notes littering the floor, crumpled up words that will never make it to your ears. staring ahead, blank as the wall; a small flicker of your attention is all im asking for. begging; scraping my knees raw on the concrete.

its.in.what.spins.you.round.

a different style of writing invented and lost to the harsh critics. stalking the author by moonlight. detailed notes writing themselves into the sunset's schedule. leaving behind the sarcastic views of logic in the minds of asylum walls. argumentative freestyle contradicting personality until the fowl crows foul. keeping technology for the worst moment of breakdown, firecracker hearts in handwriting. keep saying charms and disillusioned monotonies with confidence, scattered pencil veins sketched on inanimate canvas. thrive on the silence of the working mind and beating heart. tension between stares across rooms and volumes of late nights and coffee caffination leave nothing for thought; threat, promise or lifetime guarantee? strike out mental complications without a second thought. hide the locks but keep the keys around your neck.

disco.

theres a familiar face in the booth; the one spinning out the music, flooding the techno beats with poison. theres a familiar face in the corner, hidden within shadows, the spark of night a fire in his eyes; the poison reflected in his whispered words, echoed in the promises. commands subliminally mixed through contact; a rough calloused touch leaving a shattered childs handprint, crimson to the sight. infectious tones strumming through veins; losing control to save the soul. rhythm; keep dancing. ebony strands, skin ethereal as the neon lights. theres a familiar face standing behind, the shotgun at his feet while heart and mind bleed out. same size, matching bullet holes; torn apart counts of eight. insight to the disease; map out its path, prints from lips to hips. theres a familiar face; blended in aches, sweat, tears.
two dead on the dance floor.

keep.me.there.

the need for anything more than nothing. their eyes open wide, dialated and vapid. lost inspiration, took a wrong turn trapped in the closet. hidden innuendos going high over the heards of sheep exchanged for dreams. sticky note the snowflakes to strawberry milkshakes. hard to ask the problem when the answer is just as unwanted. enigmas so rare that they're never unique. my words are my thoughts, interchangable. the desire for something only admitted to one person. head under pillows, fingers in ears, blindfolded under the bed. muffled heartbeat before its rhythms pulse true. my saving grace called in sick today. common sense works the forty hour nine to five week with no such thing as overtime. random guitar strings hanging, waiting to put your head through the noose. wishing you were older to get in on the inside joke. paying your way through circumstance. prepaid travel plans to the past. silent; pencil scratching away at the paper, erasing the plastic cover on nerve endings. footsteps overhead, underground, passing through who you are today. the bit down fingernails driven in and forever sealing the coffin. one last take before the body's numb, before the remaining moral fragments blow away in the blistering wind as dead flakes of skin. bittersweet silence. dissect the narrator; the lack of heart, the poison blood, the frosted tissue inside and out. warmth of longing never felt so cold. awaiting the elusive sleep, to join in on the slumbering world of illusion, to take door number two and find the easy way out. brushing fingertips in desolate backalleys. the promise of blood mingling with broken concrete and spilled coffee leaking out of the paper cup at your feet. fangs bared, botched the job as approaching light. infection spreading as transformation to moonlight, forsake the sun. antibiotics dulling the thirst. whispers frozen on the air.

in.a.perfect.world.

set one clock early. sleep in.
set one clock late. work better under pressure.
stressed to combustion. hyperactive overanalysis.
recharged braincells. written in slipping nerves.

the house is burning down, flames lick the edge of your soul, but hitting the snooze button one more time is worth the perfection i see in your dreams. underage mindfucking in a suburban setting. jailbaited behind locked doors and in backseats. hidden in threadbare boxers left up to the imaginative touch. would you still taste as sweet drowned in saltly tears over ice? sour green eyes watch your last breath fade from the windshield. suffocate on cheap perfume. im writing the story on a page you havent turned to yet. the fantasy turns fatal when you find out. stay on the same page.paragraph.scar.grain of sand in the hourglass. tick away time until the plane takes off and youre on the way to all youve ever wanted. destination: second chances in deserted hallways, entwined with second choices out of dress code. best friends around with suspects. i cant keep my own, would you ever have known? i write these words to fit in a place that never gave me a chance or passing glance, an identity to be questioned. falling in love with the backwards clock. waiting for the twentysix fuck. pierce the flesh, sensitive metal. exposed to a stranger for painful inevitable pleasure. arms wide open, raw and bleeding, your name as i walk out the door.

english.words.mental.meanings.

sapphire blues lost behind pale screens, ruby reds poised in a sucker’s dream. tapping on the window of the mind, only to be denied entrance to our li(v)es.
venture to where the young wild things are with beating compass in hand. they haunt the second star to the right, until the enchantment of infinity on high.
bright ideas in moonlit rooms, secrets come alive in the dark,
truth revealed under black lights. fluorescent placebo, soundtracked emotions, imaginative truth stretching unknown limits, while logic remains wallflowered in the corner.
somewhere away the foul calls out. snooze button reality, illusion the day. first rays of conscious thought color them golden; black and white return to contrast.
concept: soul mates never die, drying their eyes on these earth toned clouds,
living the selfless masquerade of requited love.
subdued ethereal guides scattered by daylight, only to become reacquainted with them
in a different state of mind at a later time.
all as the spirits of the night take their routine flight.
-xo

biting my nails and spitting out tacks. wheres the script everyones acting off? no more pictures please i dont want more problems. take up space in another mind. will you be able to sleep when they come to collect five months rent overdue? pay with your personality and (wet) dreams. cutting schemes.dreams.screams to movie screens. my heads emptier than my bed. never alone in the back of the class behind the glass. senseless claims at one am. beat me. tattoo scars and violent words, poison my blood with harsh truth and sentiments. starve me. leave me in the dark with nothing but my depreciating thoughts and ignore the delirious cries for those who paint this black and white night. leave me be, the walls wont come down for you.