We broke the house

You wrote me from a book of disorder.

You stole an identity

painted my name with a tattered brush

long, old, and worn.

Paint thrown thick and black

onto walls, onto paper,

onto stone, brick, and a cold house

yellow wallpaper no longer kind, gentle

the place that you longed for

torn, ripped, decayed and unloved.

The paint drips onto your shoes

as you remember where the first cracks appeared.

But you don't remember how.

Or what.

Except, the hate you have of me.

Grown, kept, nourished

by desperation.

That poison
My dear, it is called addiction.

You cannot resist to taste and paste

my name like lyrics to explain your hate.

To everything purple and green, yellow and red,

you compare me to everything you love and dread.

For all to see and share and learn

the evil you see

the satisfaction you feed

desperate

to help support your sadness as it burns.

Hungry child weeps.

Shun

Hideous insides squeeze tight
And there's nothing to hold onto.
Everything turns dark,
And my familiar surroundings begins to fade.
Nothing to hold on. Nothing to hold on. But I'm slipping, I'm falling and-
-I try. I try to stretch myself back into a humane shape
but
Like glue,
My skin sticks to my hands.
And the gravity gets stronger,
And my resistance gets weaker,
And I feel the crushing of my organs
Stain each other red.
Flesh turns to bone, bone turns to dust.
Dust rides the wind,
Choking on itself, never pure.
I'm blind to comfort.
I'm deaf to the world.
And I'm mute,
mute to scream away the current I'm trapped in.
Soul stuck
from love again.

Raindrops

There is a sadness leaking in my heart.

It doesn't drip like a whisper,

But empties in a scream.

Looking through a blue hue,
At the regrets, pouring down

Down, Down

Through a single stream.

One note, one wave,

A whole entirety

Summed up in such a singular world.

Echo upon echo,

The river pours,

A chemistry of darkness,

In poetic slumber.

But it's such a beautiful world.

Reckless words

Ain't like that any more.On the floor,
Near the bookshelf
By the stairs.
Fourth step. Fourth step doesn't smile.
But fourth step never smiled.

Quiet words,
Whispers
Thoughts
A thunder.
Simple things, a faint fire,
Burns like a scream,
A preying liar.
She ain't crazy,
Oh she ain't crazy-
But the heart's desire.
A drenched flier
Sayin'
I love you.

A mist.
A flood.
All honesty,
Written in mud.
Complicated knots
Entangle muscle, memory, mind.
Pulls me in a dark, dark cave.
Leaves my warmth behind.
Oh so subtle,
Your gentle breeze in the shape of your smile.
But then my breath,
It's empty and vile,
My words
Just
Spoken
With a rotten tongue.
But it's not just a mistake,
Because you're someone.

I'm sorry.

(But there's more to that.
They're just reckless words,
Meaningless birds
That sing no notes
in the Garden.
Invisible feathers,
invisible everything.
But let them sing,
In whatever colour you choose,
The sense they bring,
That I refuse
To say I'm always right,
Always bright.
Always alight
With kind thoughts and...
Understanding tones.
Understanding glows,
Of polite sentences.
Yourself is my importance,
And that's why I say it.
Just like that.)

The Happiness Machine

To calculate your overall happiness, you take out a few counters from The Box. Lets say... A yellow counter for happiness, and a black counter for sadness. Now depending on what kind of mood you are in, affects the currency exchange rate, but lets say you're feeling quite neutral right now, so each black counter is minus one, and each happiness counter is plus one. After picking out several counters from the box, you realise you're on a minus number. All your worries and fears have been drawn out from The Box, and they stare back at you coldly. You'll want to add more yellow counters because happiness is a good thing right? So you try and reflect upon the good things - almost desperately to get to '0' or a plus number. Sometimes this is quite difficult, and sometimes you count the black counters as minus two or three, because you feel quite sad.

But no matter your calculation, you don't have to stand by it. When have numbers or math ever served you in a light-hearted conversation with your friends, or the feeling of warmth - either from the sun or just simply from a smile? Take a break from fighting the world, and make your own personal revolution. Break free from sitting in that dark room and counting... And make your own rules to happiness.

The Pocket Watch I

As I was walking home,

I put my hands in my pockets,

And tried to ignore the cold.

Somewhere I could hear the faint pulse

of a pocket watch,

It's beat as loud as thunder

On the quiet street.

It occurred to me that this sound

Was like like the drum of my heart.

A rhythm like this does not last forever.

Neither blood or battery is infinite.

And yet in this world, time passes

Without a conscience, without a thought.

Yesterday felt like today,

And today feels like tomorrow.

I know I saw your smile,
Yet I cannot remember standing by your side.

I know I heard you laugh,

yet I cannot remember if I was there.

Dreams and reality merge,

And I'm never certain,
On the existence of my own memories.

What does it matter if I had written it down,

When it does not feel as if it happened?
Feeling lost in my own thoughts,
I continue walking along the street.

Up the hill,

But down in my own world,

Where the hands of a clock draw

circle upon circle,

losing it's perfect timing,

Half a second each day.

This will be part of a series of poems. The Pocket watch is symbolic to me, and there is still more I wish to express that I can't put into just one.

Broken Window

They say it's quiet. When you stay in your room.

When you lock the door, and sit by the window.

But the window is brown and dusty, and it only opens slightly ajar,

Revealing just a little of the garden below,

Where the flowers and the trees don't grow.

You can only see a faint outline of an old swing,

That you used to know as a child.

Did you look down and remember when,

Times weren't so dreadful?
Did silent tears fall from your cheeks,

As you remember the roses that used to sing,

And dance and laugh in the wind?

You draw the curtains,

The silence continues.
Yet dear friend, I know,

That inside you're screaming.

But there are petals you can't see,

Beautiful vibrant colours;

That fall to your feet.

Despite the darkness, there is never a time when you need to stay in that place forever.

Close the window, retrace your steps, and unlock the door.

There are always new gardens ready to bloom.

Older Stuff

I've always used writing as one of the ways to deal with emotion and reasoning. In particular
'It began with a card', it helped me to figure out a way to deal with anger, and as cheesy as it sounds, to have some kind of sympathy and forgiveness at the end. 
Most of the time I use my own emotions to write expressively, probably 'The Rumour' was my most 'angry' poem/rant. When I read it I remember the anger I had felt - and even though I firmly believe in forgiveness and letting go of the past... Remembering your experiences and emotions which made 'you' at the time yourself and explained what your past self is like is important.
------------------------------------

It began with a card

 And so it read...

                Fly!   If you want to.

You can if only you want to!

Fly without strings – nothing to catch your fall!

Say their name and no reply,

But you can damn well FLY!

Fly as high as you can – so no one can see you.

Fly over to visit – so they don’t have to come to you.

It’s all because they’re holding you in their heart...

When it’s convenient.

And they’ll let go, when it’s just as practical.

So lets fly!

Fly over to say hello, how are you?

Such bland conversation with no meaning,

The demand of thinking so demeaning,

Would you remember my name, if it wasn’t written down?

Somewhere on your desk, is there a note ---

Remember her name, on that day, write a card, make it

say...

Fly! If you want to.

 -Only-, if you want to.

Fly one way, one direction.

Fly my way, a grand dictation.

Your only wish, is my decision,

Your wings fly towards me,

Like it’s my mission

I have to say it was kind of you,

 To think of me so fondly,

 Such happy memories you describe,

 When you saw me as a baby,

 Did you remember the colour of my eyes?

 Did you watch them grow and change?

 It’s easy now to see my face,

 New photos online to replace,

 The old ones you never had,

 The ones you never asked for.

I don’t think I’ll fly the course,

I’m eighteen now, I see through your cloud.

I won’t play along any more,

Though I'll remain at the same place,

To return your once in a blue moon messages,

And your birthday wishes and kisses.

I know you're busy, I know you have your own life.

But if only you knew how wrong it was,

To think I can so freely fly.

-------------------------------

A true friend never drops a stone.

No, no, just no more. She can't say yes any more.
Burning flames, light the stone,
Never mind that, leave it alone.
Go back to the crowd, it's easy that way.
Abandon the flames, take it away.
You walk, you go, you leave, you know,
That stone gonna burn, gonna burn through the snow.
Let it melt away, forget it's decay,
She can't yes anyway. Any more. Any day.
She don't care, she's free now.Free from that small little stone,
A small little stone that's going to burn,
No love, no regret, no wish, no debt,
As long as she's not bound from that tiny stone,
She's fine, she's happy, she's alone.As long as she can abandon the stone.

But when that stone's flame extinguish,
By one true friend.
By one one true distinguish.
The little stone will remember,
Who set it on fire, and who saved her.

One small stone you could not save.
One small regret you have made.
------------------------------

The Rumour

After two years your whispers have turned into a direct scream,
That leaves me shivering,
And hurt.
I find myself in the dark room you seem so eager to push me into,
Because I am not you.
Because I am not like you at all.
Do you like me pretending not to hear,
your comments that you so loudly preach to eager listeners? Of your so called tales of my life, that you call actual 'history'?
Are you so brave in fact,
that every so often I can hear my name,
I turn to see eyes looking at me and mouths closed.
I turn away.
And you continue.
Is it easy because I'm open minded? Because I'm so gullible? That I were to think that you were not leading me to this dark, cold room,
but to a grassy field were perhaps, we could all just get along?
No.
That's not how you work is it? I've learnt now. And I'm disappointed but...
I open the door and leave the dark room.
There is that field ahead of me – but it doesn't involve you. It's far more nicer than that.
Sitting in a circle are my friends – amazing friends. They speak louder words that you, and they have honest eyes.
They are true to nature, and true to me. I haven't needed to care any more, about your deadly remarks.
The ones that leak poison, the ones that hurt again, and again like a wasp's sting.
Because my friends are the cure, the remedy and the sun. They remove the darkness, and now you're affect on me has gone.

---------------------------

My ShoeBox

My shoebox has no windows.
My shoebox has no light.
And now my shoebox has a lid,
That is wedged on tight.

In my shoebox there are moments.
That one cannot share.
Of things like smiles and voices,
From everywhere.

I know that some people may not understand
The box I'm carrying around.
I know that some people do understand
How tightly I hold things close by me.

(They whispered about effort, distraction, lack of concentration.
They whispered about clothes, face, sexuality.
They whispered about things, they knew I could hear.
And they whispered about things, they thought I couldn't.
What hurt most?)

I also know that its already too late
To change what has been happening of late.
But I needed that time, to prepare
To be strong and kill that nightmare.
And continue...

So soon after, I will try harder.
I'll be as strong as I can.
I will practice, know and master.

And: Then I will build and make
A new shoebox for me.
And this one, will be just as precious
With every good single memory.
With my new 'obsession' embedded into me,
Letting go won't be easy.

And I won't let my shoebox ever die.

Ugly

Face.
Legs.
Stomach.
Belch.
Smell.

Shiver.

Cry.
Fade.
Shadow.
Saved.

Long lasting breath,
Beside me.
Ugly girl,
But happy.

The Monster and a Game of Chess.

You say that you are mean,

        That you are a bad person,

                  Who uses people,

                            For your own gain.

And you say this behind your clever spectacles,

And your handsome stare.

Usually facing between my shoulders, but somewhat beside my head.

Your mind is thinking of a distant person,

Who you can't quite touch.

I wish I could give you the link, but I only got in the way.

My foolish desire for you to be happy,

Led me to give you such ideals there were beyond your hand.

It is because of me that you suffered, and will suffer.

Because I am the mean person that you so think you are.

I know what it takes to be truly mean;

One must act blindly, become reckless, become foolish.

You act only with immense thought.

Even if you're actions are selfish,

They are not irrational.

You know who your friends are, and you recognise that friendship.

I don't even see the faces on the pawns I throw forward.

And then when I do,

It is often too late.

A few regrets that I burden,

Are using those who are honest and truly kind,

In a bitterly twisted game.

You have a clean and colourful path,

Even if you see only grey.

One who has painted so much anger and caused conflict,

can recognise and only admire a picture of serenity.

I touch your image for a moment,

and see that I marked the canvas.

I am decaying your wonderful gallery,

With a sickening burden of darkness.

I should leave, but I don't know anywhere else,
That burns a welcoming fire so brightly,

As you.

(It's between the lines)

And so you hurt me.
You dug your claws into my wrists,
and you wouldn't let go until you were perfectly satisfied.
And when your rage dimmed down,
And your fingers stained red,
You would leave quickly,
told me I was the one to blame,
that I was the one who caused the pain-
The blood splatter on the walls.
Thank goodness you're gone now.
You were a bloody mess.