i hide you
i even try,
what i’m doing
i lose you
just a lie,
and why do
when i know that
it’s not right?
i hide you
i even try,
what i’m doing
i lose you
just a lie,
and why do
when i know that
it’s not right?
My empty head is so full of blue
Of bleeding skies and listless hues
Lonely petrichor in hidden dreams
Wish my heart wasn’t so evergreen
Hoping wasted hexes aren’t obscure
And the daylight stars are kismet pure
I blink, I wake, I sleep, I breathe, I die
With only pacific blue within my eyes
You’re efflorescent June, I’m wilting July
Perfume fragrance and perfume-scent lies
Morning coffee, morning hair, morning regret
Blue as bruises, blue menthol, blue until death
Gloom in charcoal and acrylic sighs
Rare as a black hole, losing fallen cries
Wearing cold blue like a feverish flu
Lucid repeat, my ocean angel, tidal you
My flooded head’s so full of midnight blue
Of pastel horizons coalescing xanthus hues
Raining embers until the hurricane sleeps again
Wish my empty heart wasn’t lacking aquamarine.
Phase One: I Don’t Know About You But I’m Ready To Move To San Diego(‘s Disneyland© Theme Park and Resort)
[EXTRACT: WE DO IT IN THE DARK WITH SMILES ON OUR FACES
WE’RE DROPPED AND WELL-CONCEALED IN SECRET PLACES
W E D O N ‘ T F I G H T F A I R]
To all the divorcees in the dancefloor
Singing songs for poor dumped hearts
Won’t you come and take a million pictures
Of my latest 100 billboard-hit chart?
I’m not famous, but I’m on your magazine
Load up the ammunition baby, take it in
The articles say that I’ll save your life
But all I’ll do is steal your brain-bored wife
So I don’t give a shit about your ideal weekends
But buy my merch, I’ll be your best friend
And don’t pretend you’ll just forget about me
When I’m bitching about how everything’s a travesty…
Phase Two: She’s Got A 10 PM Audition Starring At The Back of A Costco Store
[EXTRACT: I’LL KEEP YOU WARM AND WON’T ASK WHERE YOU’VE BEEN
WITH YOUR BACKLESS BACK DRESS SOAKED TO THE SKIN
W H E N A L L ‘ S S A I D A N D D O N E T H E Y ‘ R E S C R A M B L I N G]
West coast smokers choking to death
And a trashy nosebleed is good for the health
Kiss it hard in the back alley like a desperate man
Blow out your sixteen candles with a gun
(and paint the town an ugly shade of party-red)
You’re all grown up and ready to waste a week
Looking for a dive bar to drown shots cheap
But the boys never liked you, Mr. Barman
Now won’t you sleep this out again with no one?
(the insults are only as bad as good guys get)
I swear I won’t swear, my mouth is clean
I go to church on Sundays and I’m never mean
I swear I won’t swear, I know that it’s all true
Your secrets are all worthless but at least I’ve got you—
(completely wrapped around my finger)
Phase Three: Warm Sympathy Is Just Cold Sarcasm For Wimps
[EXTRACT: I KNOW YOU’VE HEARD ALL THIS BEFORE
LET’S HEAR IT FOR AMERICA’S SWEETHEARTS
I M U S T C O N F E S S , I ‘ M I N L O V E W I T H M Y O W N S I N S]
I don’t love you at all but I love your therapy
You talk like you’re going deaf, so won’t you lie to me?
If it’s not about comforting then I wouldn’t even care
You look even messier today, did you do something with your hair?
I said I’d write a million poems about you but I got carpal tunnel
Just like how you said you’d give me a taste of first-class hell
We both smiled like a girl’s best friends, only it’s all fake
And we didn’t believe we could mine such coal-black mistakes
I don’t love you at all but you scare the devil out of me
But I wouldn’t call you an angel, don’t you just love my honesty?
Phase Four: Children’s Nursery Rhymes Are Really Letting Themselves Go These Days
[EXTRACT: MY SONGS KNOW
WHAT YOU DID IN THE D A R K
S O L I G H T ‘ E M U P]
I ‘ l l S T U M P y o u , I ’ l l S T U M P y o u
I ’ m a m a z i n g w i t h i d i o t ’ s s y n c r a s i e s
I ’ l l s T u M p y o u , I ’ l l S t U m P y o u
I ’ m a m a z i n g i f y o u ’ l l a s k m e t o b e
I ’ l l s t u m p y o u , u o y p m u t s l l ‘ I
M y n a m e ’ s n o t P a t r i c k b u t b a b e , I ’ m a s t a r
B u t i f y o u t h i n k t h a t t h i s j o k e ’ s g o i n g t o o f a r
T h e n I ’ l l d u m p y o u , I ’ l l D U M P y o u .
Phase Five: If My Brain Could Actually Think For Itself, What Would It Say?
[EXTRACT: IF I COULD GET MY SHIT TOGETHER
I WANNA RUN AWAY AND NEVER SEE ANY OF YOU AGAIN
N E V E R S E E A N Y O F Y O U A G A I N]
Let me count the ways you kill me;
1.) You carved promises at the notches of my brittle bones, mercilessly enthralling and hypnotising me under the anaesthetic assurance that everything was fine, that I was fine, and that I wouldn’t ever have to destroy myself again; but all the while, you crushed the very foundations beneath my suspended feet and made heaven shatter all around me like an ethereal motion sickness. And as if that wasn’t enough, you set everything on fire and watched this wretched phoenix turn to listless ashes, never to rise again; a demented conflagration.
2.) You promised me for better or for worse, but as I tried to find new names for the shade of red in my lips, you forgot about the obscene sickness that’s violently heaving inside my compromised chest and without so much as a twinge of second chances or point-blank hesitation, you injected every indistinct symptom known and unknown to man, turning my shaky breaths to crystalline lilacs and my selfish ribs to impure glass. I asked for a cure, and instead I received a despicable panacea, a myriad riot of plagues that irreparably devastated my system, ripping me to irreversible shreds. “You can’t get hurt if all you feel is hurt, right?”
3.) I’ve got hands like houses, and you rejected my severed hospitality as you broke down every locked door and deceptive boundary like it was nothing; like I was nothing. I constantly find myself lost in complicated syncopes, as I’m trapped spiraling and crawling back to the same self-sustaining cycles of parabolic grief and hypertensive schizophrenia, predicting premonitions that never came true. This eternal winter freezing over my bloodline is stitched together by a million blizzards and snowstorms conspiring exquisitely at once, but this difficult tantrum of a weather is not a tribulation to you, is it? Your cold temper is intolerable, a thousand suns melding together and detonating convulsively in the empty vacuum of space, and there’s no one else around to hear me scream one last time. I wanted to burn. You took it too far.
4.) Were you even sorry? Did you even feel a single taste of contrition when you watched my starving, pathetic soul grapple for life at the very nave of that decimated altar, asking for the silhouetted universe to fall on my back so that it wouldn’t be my fault, nor yours, that everything got screwed over? Did you see what I’ve done, just so I wouldn’t be what you’ve become? I couldn’t find my way back on the ground, so I swallowed my pride like pried coffin nails for the sake of a more poignant memory to remember; retribution heals what time cannot. Yet now I close my reckless eyes and softly coalesce in sadistic plumes of the miserable discourse you call an intravenous love, and I beg, and I beg. Were you even sorry at all?
5.) You are me, and I am you. I have no one. You are no one. When you lived, I died; and when you died, I along with you. I called it genocide. They called it desperation. For I am me, and you are you. There was no one else. They called it suicide. I call it salvation.
my pen ceased to move
involuntarily to your soul,
but darling my thoughts have
since never stopped dancing
ever since that fateful summer
when you collided it into motion.
my faith may be a reckless phantom
but my eyes are your scarlet letter
and i’ll always see the world for how
you built it according to your word
of eloquence, of madness, of every sigh;
and i’ll never forget the melodies
that embraced all the darkest parts
Of my liquid nightmares, and pulled
them back slowly into the sunlight
until the nights felt warm with hope again.
i’d call you an angel, if it isn’t overused
and i think you already know that anyway—
but always know this to be the truth:
you may not always be the last thing on my mind,
but darling, you will always be the first.
Tungsten eyes will wage a futile war
With hearts so big and minds so small
They saw it coming, but what’s the problem?
You speak of fear and love, but what until then—?
Crying wolf won’t keep your hands alive
It’s just another bend, it’s just another night
Giving up is contagious, and I’ll just take the cue
I’m done with being finished, what about you?
But the edge of my seat is more comfortable than ever
And the tip of your blade won’t hold me forever
Let’s call a truce before one ends up bleeding in their bed
So let’s call a truce before the winner ends up defeated.
You were my mockingbird darling;
Caught in between my smileless teeth
As the universe revolved without wonder
My cigarette lungs are no good for you
But the cobalt in your stare was all I needed
To get away from a summer-set heaven
I must have lost ambrosia on my tongue; as
Your ichor paints over the autumn gloom on my face
And every infinite thought of ours ceases to exist.
but now that
even watch me.
i n s a n i t y
like decadent lies
is best left cold
as the heart is left
simply to d i e.
And when I see you
I really see you upside-down
But my brain knows better
It picks you up and turns you around
Turns you around, turns you around
If you feel discouraged
That there’s a lack of color here…
It was an easy kind of self-destruction; the one I never had to beg for.
After a few nights of staying awake and listening to cheaply-constructed songs on the static radio, I was already haunted. Copper chain links that stabbed at the fictional horizon and left unstitched scars on the exposed wind. Shy vespertine flowers that bloomed in the most coruscant spectrums, but only when no weeping eye was there to witness their exquisite grandeur and compose concerto symphonies about it. An infinite, arrogant, wakeless kind of blue that rivaled every transatlantic and pacific direction that I chased; but, unlike the oceans of this planet so drenched and cold and jaded to the bone, no one is ever able to cross it, and no one ever will.
And violet. A damnable shade, akin to roses-not-reds and forget-me-nots, that violet. A bleeding, dirty kind of violet that left filthy, undecipherable Roschach stains everywhere. Splattering the bruises of my halted tongue, shading the asphyxiation of my untouched lips, violently overtaking the rock-steady sorry secret that was divulged and diluted all too late. It painted a tragedy that only the most damaged and paranoid artists could understand, and rending shreds of the purest agony down my colliding ribs that not even the most genius maestros and starving dilettantes could begin to dissect; for it was a foreign anatomy. A different unknown. A beyond the beyond. It was brutally twisted inside my veins and gauchely discarded somewhere in between sense and sanctuary, photographed and arrested in another postcard vintage lie. I could write graphite letters at the back all I want, but I’ll never swim away from the indigo waves in front. It was our holiday memory, drowning me again and again and again.
Absolutely useless. It couldn’t aid my breathing. It couldn’t save my sleeping. It was a disease that was highly susceptible only to my atrophied words and comatosed syllogisms—the same unfortunate ones that are now leaving my chafed fingers but never my wornout mind, like you, like you, like you.
Unrelenting. Unsuspending. Unending.
All my colours were inverted. And no one can turn it back the right way.
If there even was one.
Please don’t worry, lover
It’s really bursting at the seams
For absorbing everything
The spectrum’s A to Z
This is fact, not fiction
For the first time in years…