La Danse, Jean-Baptiste Carpeaux.

If my body parts are beautiful, then why are my secrets disgusting?

C.W

Keeping you was like trying to clasp water with an open hand. I grasped for handfuls of your affections, but always ended up staring at an empty palm.

C.W

I want to forget I need air. To be breathless will remind me to survive;  to live to cherish the embodiment of my personal paradise.

C.W

You have rewritten over my mournful pages. Defacing each decaying page in a luxurious ink of ecstasy.

C.W

The way you loved.

The way you loved me was confusing. At first we swayed like the ocean in July; Gently crashing palms and tongues. Then the seasons changed and a vicious strength grew inside you Every touch stung, every word demolished me. I. Was. Drowning. Lungs bursting with the toxins you violated me with. But I still loved you. A heavy hand never stilled the overwhelming devotion I felt after looking to your eyes. I saw a broken man. A man seeking answers inside a young girl who never even knew the questions.

“You see, before he came down here, it never snowed. And afterwards, it did. If he weren’t up there now… I don’t think it would be snowing. Sometimes you can still catch me dancing in it.” Edward Scissorhands (1990) dir. Tim Burton 

Pilgrim.

These words sit with a bitter taste. Each syllable, every missed “t”, a few stutters, feel like an unknown pilgrim beneath my teeth. A lone traveller that took residence in my voice, making a preacher out of a lamb. Do not welcome this pilgrim with an open smile, like I. Instead, stand straight, lean the neck forward and clamp him beneath teeth made for encouragement. Follow the instruction to the letter, as this pilgrim is the sinister whisper from a single reflection. From the reflection, that set sail on a boat made of dreams, Gliding through the teeth and comfortably resting there. My independent thoughts cannot sweeten the poisonous residue, that lies on a feather constructed bed. Bitter words do not make for a better mind.   These words sit with a bitter taste, because they are the very rejection of the infestation of darkness.

You gave me dreams of beaming sunlight and it was my own mind that turned them into dark paradises.

Writers Avenue 

I do not want to leave you, but now you know. You know what it feels like, to live as I do.

Writersavenue

Shame.

You found me sad. But what happiness, Does an outcast have?

For baby, I’m a prisoner. A prisoner shackled, To iron bars, Constructed of my shame.

My inmates have an echo, That pricks my nerves. The inconsiderate fellows, Just live too loud, On my vulnerable days.

This prison consumes me, As I know, This is all that’s left for a shell; a few dregs of happiness after the elixir has been gulped.

For baby, I’m a prisoner. A prisoner shackled, to iron bars, constructed of my shame.

Writers Avenue

We are shackled to this non existent force called faith.

Writersavenue

Obituary.

For he did not take you gentle. For he did not take you kind. For he had a game, of horrid torment designed.

A lamb to the slaughter, a traitor from within. He made your body a weapon, fatal beneath the skin.

A toxic created by one, so strong. He created it rampant, by your side for a year long.

Time was a game, out of our control. He wore the watch, counting down body and soul.

Finally finished.. Allow me to re-introduce you to.. Big Bad Wolf.

The love of poetry.

You play the lines I write, portray the words I felt, whispered the ink on my page.

I fell in love with the way, you brought my work to life. Personified my inner thoughts, that were sealed in commentary.

No use for rings or chains, I'd hand you a note, with articulate promises, written in the middle, simply to hear your voice.

Because I fell in love, with a flamboyant poet, that I'm simply in awe of.