All you have left

In a stolen night,
I hear you strumming on heart strings,
Making my skin crawl,
Screeching, screaming.
I brace my ears to the
Cold, raucous sounds, hush
Change remains reluctant,
I remain concerned.
Sleep doesn’t forgive my mind,
Yet scatters my thoughts
Spacing the patches of dark
Stretching them into dead of night.
Once smiles danced across our,
So similarly dissimilar lips, eyes, skin,
We’d play beneath sepia portraits
In lost plains of smoke and colour.
The stolen pictures is all you left,
Two people, synchronised,
Happy.
But it’s just something you found,
Not something you breathe.

breakfast in america

stretched limbs over starry sheets,

just another white trash monday kiss,

navy and raven flags,

speckled with wishful longings.

Roller skates, baby blues,

a crooked smile flashed over cap'n crunch,

down that sunny d, pop some coke

rushing down your empty throat.

the kitchen

We perched ourself on the icy shelves,
peering curiously over the tiles of the showroom,
examining the boldness of the colour,
and the beautiful symetry of the patterns.

As we climbed slowly down from our
regally perched shelves
we saw the tiles in a new light.
worn and scathed
we saw the dirt from our feet
and the discolouration from the
perpetual scrubbing to renew it's glow.

This brightness however,
lit up our love for what these tiles had become
filled with charachter joy and reminiscance
we kept the tiles for our kitchen
and as we gazed down
over the marks, scratches and blemishes
we sat in the silence
of what we had just created.

A kitchen that honestly and truely
represented you and me.
And I sat with a smile
because our kitchen, my future
had never looked so good.

White Trash

Whats up, grab a cup,
Grab that bottle, fill her up,
Hitch your dress, make a mess,
kiss a hero, take a guess.
Simply trash, don’t be brash,
Scream out louder, make a splash.

Boys on dope, bring false hope,
Sit in corners in the smoke.
Girls make eyes at pretty guys
Shortly after, unzipped fly’s.
Bad behaviour, willing strangers,
No-one cares about the danger.

Girls in pool, make boys drool,
Make them stare and be a fool,
Hit the street, tap your feet,
Take a swig and deem defeat.
Stumble home, lose your phone,
Take a look at the night you’ve blown.

Harmony

The drops of tireless
Smashing, bashing, running
And defending
Trickle down my lucid spine.
Dancing to the pounding beat,
The ravenous rhythm,
The arduous thud,
The connecting drum.
Feel that gasp escape
My withered lips,
My intrepid efforts,
Torn by a checkerboard.
My mind focused
Yet sensitive to the pain
Writhing in my opponents blood
As I deliver a slam.
A yelp coincides the cheer
Perfect harmony.

caught in a downpour

the sound of the downpour
embedding itself in my
perfectly paralell locks
envelops me in joy.

tear out your headphones
and just tune in to the
broken sound of your own
soft voice.

i haven't smiled like this in a long time.
a long,
long time.

what number.

cursing over swollen lips and turrets
of our innane search to combat our ferocious jealous
of almost imperfection
and forget to realise how oblivious our nature is
to reject the impartial and hopeless
the arcid and racuous happenings

they miss the crudness faced by those gone before

those trapped in alleyways on rancid nights
and their arduous attempts to free themselves from the bitterness
of reality.

those gone by hand or gun and forced to have their brains splattered
across the neatly arranged grass, simply seen as toys to play with
bowling pins placed for enjoyment and the
joy to attaining power through slaughtering millions.

those left waiting for him to come home.

those asphyxiated by pressure to conform to nothing but conformity
to lose themselves in office shelves and heartless ruse.

those who were torn to shreds in appartment floors in inner london
limbs scattered from wall to wall, cherry floors, those who heard the screams but never
flinched or questioned intentions.

those who sit in streets with signs plastering lies simply to
relive themself for a night.

those who were thrown in the pyres, women thrown first as they burn more quickly
then men. there is always order.

those who threw themselves without a thought of ten story buildings and plastered
across the front of papers but not given a name.

We never get names of those who matter. Those who matter don't seem to matter.
We remember the maniacal introverts who slashed and bashed the innocent for their own
disgusting joy.

******* ***** who crucified 35 and wounded 21 in 1996.

**** ***** who kidnapped and slaughtered 7 in backpackes murders in the 1990s

****** ****** blasted 60 and injured numourous others in the 2002 bali bombings

****** ******* who killed 148 and committed countless crimes against humanity

******* ******** who murdered 10 after firing 200 rounds in a residential neighborhood in 2009

****** **** who shot 12 in New York in the fall of 2009.

those who hate and hurt, who slice and dice, who ruin lives and steal jewels off our surface will be remembered but those who cry for help or pass in their sleep will be a number.

so amid your ruthless and pointless fights simply pause. Just ask.

what number will you be?