There is something in the way your clouds gather—quiet, soft, and aching with unspoken weather—that I find myself endlessly drawn to. Most people fear the gray, the mist, the uncertain horizon, but I have learned to love the storms that move through you. They are not tempests to escape; they are the secret language of your soul.
Your clouds are the places where your heart goes to think. They drift across your eyes when you’re lost in memory, they settle on your shoulders when the world feels too heavy, and they burst into rain when you’ve held too much for too long. And I love every shade of them—the pale silvers of doubt, the dark blues of sorrow, the warm golds of hope breaking through.
When you say you’re “cloudy,” I don’t see imperfection; I see sky. I see depth. I see the wild honesty of someone who feels deeply and refuses to pretend otherwise. Your clouds make you real. They make you human in the most beautiful way.
I want you to know this: I am not here just for your sunshine. I am here for the rolling thunder of your fears, the soft drizzle of your hesitations, the swirling fog of your uncertainty. I am here to walk with you through every shifting season. I am here to stand beneath your sky and say, yes—love can stay, even when the weather changes.
Your clouds don’t scare me, my love. They soften me. They steady me. They teach me how to hold you gently.
And every time they pass, revealing the quiet blue beneath, I fall for you again—deeper, truer, with the kind of devotion that only grows in the rain.
Once upon a broken heat I learned that loneliness does not arrive loudly. It does not knock or announce itself with ceremony. It seeps in, quiet as dusk, and takes a seat beside you as if it has always belonged there. I remember thinking that friends would come naturally, like breathing, like weather, like something no one ever had to explain. I did not know then that connection was a language I would struggle to speak, that depth would be my native tongue while most people preferred simple phrases and quick exits.
I tried to make friends the way everyone else seemed to. I smiled at the right moments. I laughed when laughter was expected. I learned how to talk about nothing at all for long stretches of time, though every word felt like gravel in my mouth. I wanted to ask the questions that mattered. I wanted to talk about grief and meaning and the way memories can bruise you without warning. Instead, I learned that too much honesty empties rooms. People like the idea of depth until they feel the pressure of it pulling at their lungs.
Some friendships began brightly, full of promise, like candles lit in dark rooms. We shared music, secrets, fragments of ourselves we did not show the rest of the world. I believed that meant permanence. I believed that once someone saw you clearly, they would not leave. I was wrong more times than I can count. People drifted. People changed. People decided my sadness was too heavy to carry, my silence too loud to ignore. They left without cruelty most of the time, which somehow hurt more. There is nothing to fight against when someone simply fades.
I mourned those friendships in private. There are no rituals for the loss of the living. No headstones for people who stop calling. No ceremonies for being replaced quietly. I replayed conversations late at night, searching for the moment where I became too much or not enough. I wondered if depth was a flaw, if craving meaning was something that needed to be cured. I tried to make myself smaller. I tried to speak less, feel less, need less. It never worked for long.
Then came the deaths. Real ones. The kind that do not return your messages because they can no longer hear them. Names that once filled rooms reduced to photographs and past tense. I watched people I loved disappear into the earth and into memory, and something in me hardened and hollowed at the same time. Grief rearranged the furniture of my mind. Every loss taught me how temporary everything is, how fragile every connection becomes once you understand it can vanish without warning.
After the funerals, the world expected me to continue as if something fundamental had not been removed. Conversations returned to normal. Laughter resumed. But I carried ghosts with me everywhere. I heard the dead in quiet moments, felt them in the spaces between sentences. Their absence became another companion, one that never asked me to explain myself.
It was then that the blank page became my closest friend. It waited for me every night, unmarked and unafraid. It did not judge the darkness of my thoughts or ask me to soften them. I could tell it everything. I could confess the resentment, the envy, the exhaustion of trying to belong. The page absorbed my words and held them without recoil. Ink became proof that I existed, that my inner world had weight and shape.
I began to understand that writing was not a hobby but a form of survival. When people left, the page stayed. When voices went silent forever, the page listened. I poured my losses into sentences and watched them transform into something almost bearable. Metaphor became a bridge between my pain and the possibility of being understood. Symbolism allowed me to say what I could never speak aloud.
I crave depth because shallow water has never taught me how to swim. I crave conversations that leave marks, that change you slightly after they end. I want connection that acknowledges suffering instead of avoiding it. I want friendships that understand silence as language, grief as history, and sadness as evidence of having loved deeply. This craving has cost me people. It has also saved me from living half awake.
The solitude did not leave, but it changed. It became quieter, less cruel. I learned to sit with it, to let it speak. In the absence of others, I became a witness to myself. I documented my own survival in paragraphs and fragments. I learned that being alone does not always mean being empty. Sometimes it means being full of things no one has asked you to share yet.
I still lose people. I still grieve. The blank page is still my truest companion. But within this solitude, I have found a strange, aching honesty. I write to remember the dead, to honor the friendships that could not stay, to speak the truths that make others uncomfortable. I write because depth demands expression, and silence would kill me faster than loneliness ever could.
Once upon a midnight fear, you will not see the echoes of my tears, because they learned to walk softly, barefoot through the house of my chest, passing clocks that cough and calendars that bruise. This is how the story begins: the way sleep explains itself to the sea, with a hush mistaken for mercy. There was a town once, built entirely of punctuation, comma streets and ellipsis alleys, where laughter leaned like tired lampposts and rumors kept bees. I lived there briefly, renting a window, watching the moon practice apologies in the tin mirrors of rooftops. Satire was the local weather, a persistent drizzle that made even statues blink and reconsider themselves.
One evening the ground cleared its throat. Dogs began writing letters to the dark. Teacups clinked like nervous teeth. The earth—an old poet with arthritis—shifted a word and cracked the sentence. We called it an earthquake, because we are afraid of naming confessions honestly. I was carrying a pocket of stars then, contraband hope wrapped in a receipt, when the tremor bowed politely, like a waiter, and asked my name. I gave it a nickname instead, because truth grows shy in public, and the nickname tasted of copper and rain.
Stories fell from shelves, their spines sighing as they hit the floor. A map unlearned its borders. My shadow slipped on a metaphor and laughed, which felt briefly illegal. In the dust I found a childhood still warm, still breathing, counting marbles like prayers. Satirical saints wagged their halos and said this was character development, selling postcards of ruin with inspirational fonts, while a sparrow stitched the air, threading silence through rubble until the silence held.
I followed a crack in the street the way one follows a river that already knows your future. It led to a theater with no roof, where clouds rehearsed tragedies and understudies called thunder. The stage manager was a patient ant keeping notes with crumbs. There, a woman named Gravity sang lullabies in a minor key, braiding ankles to floors and memories to doors. She sang of falling as pilgrimage, of bruises as stamps in a passport, and I stamped willingly. Dreams queued politely nearby, holding numbers, waiting to explain themselves. One wore my father’s coat and smelled of winter and oranges, and told me to forgive the ground for wanting to move on.
The quake softened, a loosening hand. Buildings exhaled. A piano found its missing leg and forgave the floor. We swept metaphors into piles labeled Later, Maybe, Never, and pretended this was normal. At dawn the sky brought coffee; steam rose like a forgiven rumor. I wrote apologies to the cracks and they wrote back, unsigned, saying they only wanted to be heard. I pressed my ear to the street and listened to the earth practice empathy.
I left town with a suitcase of aftershocks, each one a small bell. On the road, satire waved from ditches holding signs that promised detours to meaning. I laughed, then slowed, then listened. Time limped afterward, hands bandaged with patience, agreeing to walk slower for the wounded. Neighbors traded sugar for stories and salt for names we forgot to say. Mirrors learned manners, tilting their faces to flatter survival. A philosopher in the square juggled apples and dropped questions on purpose, saying certainty bruises easily and doubt is a feather mattress. Children chalked hopscotch across fault lines, jumping from Before to After, their laughter forming a bridge no engineer approved.
Bread rose despite instructions. Yeast preached resurrection to ovens. We ate metaphors warm, buttered with relief, crumbs mapping constellations on our shirts. Someone toasted absence and clinked a glass, and the glass forgave gravity again. I mailed a letter to the future without an address, only a mood. The stamp was a leaf. The postmark read, Whenever you’re ready. The future replied with a dream wrapped in newspaper, smelling of ink, the headline screaming that I survived myself.
Night rehearsed gently then, a lullaby with commas for stars. The moon stopped apologizing and listened. I slept with my shoes by the bed, in case the earth asked me to dance. Now the town is quieter. Punctuation has grown gardens. Ellipses bloom like pauses. Cracks are filled with gold because we learned a trick from old bowls: breakage can be an instruction manual. I keep the bells from my suitcase and ring them when words grow stubborn. They remind me that movement is a language, that fear read slowly is only a letter begging for context. So I write softly, and the ground answers softer still, and if the page trembles I breathe ink, count heartbeats, trust margins and footsteps, trusting that even endings are temporary shelters humming quietly while we learn balance beneath forgiving skies.
The poet’s tears do not rush. They gather slowly, like words circling a thought they are afraid to land on. They rise from the chest, where memory keeps its quiet archives, and they taste of all the moments that were almost spoken but never survived the air. Each tear carries a small history, a sentence unfinished, a love that learned to live in silence.
When they fall, they are not asking for mercy. They are translating feeling into something the body can release. Salt becomes language. The face becomes a page. The tear traces a line the poet could not yet write, slipping past grammar, past reason, past pride. It is a confession without audience, a prayer whispered to no one in particular.
Some tears are born from wonder—how beauty persists even after being wounded, how light still finds broken places and calls them holy. Others come heavy with grief, thick with nights that stretched too long and mornings that arrived empty-handed. These tears do not shout; they endure. They know the shape of loss and the patience of waiting.
The poet wipes their face and pretends the moment has passed, but it never does. The tears dry and move inward, settling between metaphors, breathing beneath the pauses, softening the sharp edges of truth. They become the weight behind every line, the ache that makes language honest.
For the poet’s tears are not an ending. They are the origin. They are the quiet proof that something mattered enough to break open, that the heart dared to feel deeply in a world that teaches restraint. And long after the eyes are dry, the tears remain—alive in the prose, asking the reader to feel them too.
At the Jackknife Tavern sits a man, drinking his loss of love away. Beside him come and go a myriad of faces, men and women with lives sometimes down and out, perhaps sad, at times inspirational, always human. These are friends and neighbors, acquaintances, coworkers… Each with their own story to tell. The poet remains on his barstool, taking notes and creating art from life. Award-winning author and poet Braeden Michaels treats us to his eighth collection of prose poetry.
I have come to love the sincere curves of you the gentle tremble of your hands, like leaves drifting on a breath of wind, the way your laughter spills softly, tiptoeing over itself into warmth, how your eyes cradle shadows that shimmer like morning dew catching the first light.
Your imperfections are soft constellations only I have learned to trace each scar, each pause, each sigh is a small lantern glowing quietly in the night, illuminating a world that belongs only to you.I would follow those lights endlessly, for they are the tender poetry of your being,the secret melody I hear when the world goes still.
I love the gentle angles of your thoughts, the corners of your heart that curl quietly inward, the way it folds like a paper boat floating on a river both calm and restless. There is a fragile beauty there, a whisper of magic in the way you simply exist.
I do not wish to smooth your edges; I want to lean into them, like a stream caressing stones, like a hand resting in the warmth of yours. Every imperfection is a brushstroke, painting the luminous masterpiece that is you, and I am endlessly, endlessly in awe.
So remain tender, remain luminous, remain human.I will stay here, in the quiet glow of your light, celebrating every soft, jagged, radiant piece of you for in your imperfection, I have found my home.
I find myself lost again in the thought of your lips—those exquisite miracles that seem less like flesh and more like a divine language written just for me. When I picture them, I see not a mouth, but a soft geography, a map of tenderness where my heart learned its compass. I could spend lifetimes tracing their shape and still never reach the end of their meaning.
Your lips are scripture, love—verses that tremble with every breath you take. I’ve stood before them in silence, like a pilgrim before the dawn, waiting for them to part, for a whisper to become prayer, for a sigh to rewrite my faith in beauty. When you speak, it’s as if petals fall from some hidden garden, and I catch them all, pressing them into memory until they bloom again in my dreams.
There is sunlight in them—some secret that gold itself envies. Even silence bends to their will, becoming music when held between the quiet edges of your mouth. I’ve seen oceans try to mimic their curve and fail; I’ve watched the moon blush, humbled by their glow. You are storm and calm all at once—two worlds meeting where your lips touch, two horizons breathing as one.
To kiss you is to taste eternity. It’s to drink from a chalice carved of longing, to drown willingly in a sea that feels like both sin and salvation. Your lips carry the ache of wanting and the promise of forgiveness. When they touch mine, the universe forgets its order—constellations scatter, and gravity itself bends to your pull.
And then, there’s your smile. That gentle, radiant unveiling—how it feels like sunrise entering my chest. When it appears, my shadows flee. When it fades, I’m left rummaging through my own heart for words grand enough to hold what I feel.
Your lips are not just beauty, my love—they are the doorway to your soul. They hold laughter, truth, and a thousand unspoken yeses. They are the red pulse of life itself, the tender wound of being alive, the rhythm of everything I adore about you.
If all art is born from longing, then you are my masterpiece, and your lips—my altar of worship. I write this not as mere admiration, but as confession: I am endlessly, helplessly undone by the miracle of your mouth.
11:32am, situated on the corner of James Madison Boulevard and Whitman Street. I am sipping emptiness on the rocks in the scowling part of town, Jackknife Tavern. I’m sulking in the chestnut colored booth throwing darts at the bombastic God I use to love. I continue to taste the kisses of my skeptical past and shake hands with the skeleton of my future. I raise my clenched fist, “Hey brother, can you pour me another? If it’s not any trouble, make it a double.”
A Marylin Chambers look a like tapped me on the shoulders with an indecent proposal. I shook my head with a chuckle and a sleazy grin. “This isn’t a joke, I can only pay by the minutes or the number of strokes.” She disappeared like a magician with the smell of her perfume turning into an aphrodisiac. I swallow loneliness like an amber ale. Isolation is my best friend without a voice. I tend to make a midnight rendezvous with yours truly but my left hand shouts “I’m quite over zealous” and the right hand whimpers “I’m quite jealous.” I only tend to acquire sparks with jumper cables.
Between noontide and the teardrops of the moon, the carnival weaved in and out of the cavern. The hooligans are tap dancing next to the jukebox, the husbands are window shopping, the cut throat whistle stoppers are juggling negotiations and plastic speeches. The jamboree was full of exaggeration, plagiarism, copycats, and satan’s storytellers. I could hear them drinking the tears more than the alcohol.
2:35pm, the regulars and bystanders strolled in with folktales dripping grief. Cigarette smoke reeked of melancholy and satire. The ambiance was filled with extravagant bar tabs, sobbing cliffhangers, romantic comedies with the mourning saxophone playing in your left ear. If you listen close, the excuses and irritation can be heard in your right ear. A pint of desolation will taste sweet and a shot of despair will run down your throat faster than a horse at the Kentucky derby. It’s a relief and a head scratcher that we call it happy hour.
5:45pm, the eyes are dry and my stomach grumbled. The gin mill is as empty as my crooning soul. I can never make out the lyrics but I get goosebumps when I hear the sorrowful piano. Harper Guthrie struts in with his graveyard black t-shirt with the phrase “You can get this body for $19.95 for one hour, but if you act now I will make you as happy as a sunflower” printed on the front. Harper is jammed with acidic antidotes but will sell you antidepressants, antibiotics, and antisemitism.He talks with his wandering hands and pleads innocent until proven guilty. He will boast about his latest purchases, meaningless job title, and the abundant cash flow problem. He serenades to the audience that he drinks to happiness. Unfortunately, he’s been charged with terrible humor and convicted of lying to himself.
7:15pm, Jackson Bryant fumbles in with his auburn acoustic guitar. He glances at the minimal crowd from the undersized stage and begins to strum. Out comes a raspy but yet a smooth sound “You can find me in the dark trying to grip the wind, you can find me feeling lost not knowing where to begin, you can shout from the depths of your lungs, you can point your fingers at me and forget the person you’ve become.” Heads turn and faces become pale as if they seen a reflection of themselves. The song ends with the spectators clapping their hands rapidly and shouting out his name. He continued to play his set as the crowd was quite allured by his presence.
As the night begin to fade, the exchange had less of a bounce. Solitude was a fog prancing in front of our bloodshot pupils. I wrote “Goodbye, Goodnight” on a vanilla napkin and handed it to the gargoyle next to me. It was time for me to face the chorus in a song I didn’t want to play. Thirty five years ago on this melodic day, I married a ballerina that is still spinning on her tip toes of my crippled heart. The King of kings took my queen away. She was plagued with a disease that had no cure. I’m done praying to a God that doesn’t listen. All I know how to do is to fill up my glass with destitution to try to take away the overwhelming misery.
Greetings taxpayers, screen wanderers, and head nodding citizens, let’s dive into the ramifications of ignoring the siren of western civilization, where the infrastructure has had a crack for generations, the colors of the flag have become evanescent, where celebrities are glorified more than soldiers, where the all mighty dollar has more value than life,
Let me introduce myself, I am the Headstone Prophet, the accountant of distractions and destruction, I don’t see black and white, gender, classes, or status, I see authority and figureheads with meaningless titles serve themselves rather than society, I see inflation and corruption welded together to spark the genocide, I am the soothsayer that is gawking at the cemeteries, counting the caskets, I wear a tattoo on my middle finger that reads “The new world order doesn’t deserve a quarter,”
Behind closed doors, the henchmen are sipping on wealth mumbling “if you aren’t rich, you will become my bitch” and the others are ranting “if you aren’t in the grave, you will be my slave,” the catchphrases are lightning and the thunder to their ears, the powers that be want division among the dwellers, they crave disunity and friction, for every label there is a asterisk and a war,
It’s time to pay close attention to these staggering numbers, human trafficking is up twenty percent, the dishonesty among politicians is up a thousand percent, the media will twist the truth fifty percent, the longer you are glued to a screen the quicker you will forget the american dream, in the end the government cares about you is zero percent,
I am the headstone prophet, I stand before you to be the alarm, I stand here to wake up for those who are asleep, I stand here to deliver the most important message of your life, I stand here to hopefully avoid counting your coffin,
(1st Verse) I am terrified of the darkness sitting still I am terrified of my identity getting killed I am terrified of the loneliness and isolation I am terrified of the water down hallucinations
CHORUS: All I have are hollow tears that fell from the cracked moon All I have is a heart that has been broken too soon All I have are years that feel wasted and gone All I have are tragic lyrics to a hopeless song
(2nd Verse) I am terrified of the light being gone forever I am terrified of the pieces I can’t put back together I am terrified of the blistering walls caving in I am terrified of not knowing where to begin
CHORUS: All I have are hollow tears that fell from the cracked moon All I have is a heart that has been broken too soon All I have are years that feel wasted and gone All I have are tragic lyrics to a hopeless song
Bridge: With these hollow tears, I traced the outline of my pain With these hollow tears, I am drowning in this pouring rain With these hollow tears, my eyes don’t see a glimpse of change
CHORUS: All I have are hollow tears that fell from the cracked moon All I have is a heart that has been broken too soon All I have are years that feel wasted and gone All I have are tragic lyrics to a hopeless song
Once upon a midnight fear She took a sip of corrosion Debilitating manners and quirks Fumbling through a frenzy Gliding inside hallucinations Staggering outside the commotions A recollection of mourning
Stern exchanges melting Comments and remarks growl Sentiments dressed in black Treasures whispering hush Ripping dead skin with caution Crumbling faith turns into dirt A recollection of mourning
Hunger flexing with animosity Greed panting with saliva In holy matrimony with the raven She tasted the hollow bitterness Numb and disgusted by the poison Infuriated with the toxic rants A recollection of mourning
Provoked by exasperation Anxiety wrapped around her neck Choking on sour corruption Addicted to the murmurs Inhaling the virulent winds Wounded by a malicious tongue A recollection of mourning
A catastrophic touch bellowed Infatuation hung as a disaster Benevolence was a chewed up dog bone Loneliness exhaled rapidly Sympathy was a an old rag Love was just mucus from a cough A recollection of mourning
I’ve been in love with the nectar and the sour drippings of you I’ve been captured by the glaze of your caress I’ve been in awe by the comfort and the shivers of your embrace I’ve been enamored by the never ending kisses and the affection I’ve been mesmerized by the sparkle dancing in your midnight eyes
And the love with you is breathtaking And the love with you is indescribable And the love with you is remarkable And the love with you has opened me up
After so many years I wouldn’t have changed a second
I’ve been in love with the honey and the radiant treasures of you I’ve been enchanted by your words and glamorous skin I’ve been aching for the centerpiece to wake me up and feel alive I’ve been daydreaming of an endless love I’ve been intoxicated by the shimmering light twinkling in your soul
And the love with you is breathtaking And the love with you is indescribable And the love with you is remarkable And the love with you has opened me up
After so many years I wouldn’t have changed a minute
I adore your compelling comprehension and character I admire your aspirations and ungodly inspirations I treasure your heart felt ballads and surreal stanzas I could fall in love with your shimmering truth
Love me like a vase of flowers Love me like a summer rain Love me like the stars cherish the sky
I love how I am sipping your kindness and devotion I love how you unravel me and am drenched in my emotions You bring out the best in me, allowing my scars to be free
“I savor the intensity and the profound conversations, I taste the connection snd showering affection”
I adore your vibrating tenderness and curiosity I admire your lion like strength and stunning conviction I treasure your silhouette rhymes and castles in my air I could fall in love with your pure intentions
Love me like a museum worships a painting Love me like a river embraces the calm Love me like the clouds relishes the sun
I love how I am sipping your kindness and devotion I love how you unravel me and am drenched in my emotions You bring out the best in me, allowing my scars to be free
“I savor the light when my shadows were in the dark, I taste the sparks and desire with you in my heart”
you could be the lyric that I never wrote you could be the nectar fawning on my tongue you could be the feather against my cheek you could be the warmth on my lost face you could be the song that repeats in my mind
And in the morning chill, I can taste the harmony off your skin And in the brisk moonlight, I can hear your symphony burn from your lips
you could be the melody that awakens me you could be the lily I see in my holy dreams you could be the breeze I never forget you could be the fear that I have forgotten you could be the song that repeats in my mind
And in the morning chill, I can feel your poetry in the chorus of my weary soul And in the brisk moonlight, I can recognize your violins in the orchestra
you could be the instrument that sparkles you could be the goodbye that is never uttered you could be the unspoken and endless limerick you could be the sorrow that turns into halcyon you could be the song that repeats in my mind
And in the morning chill, I can watch you play the acoustic guitar whispering your poetry And in the brisk moonlight, I can see pieces of myself you savor in your tragic song
To me, music and poetry go hand in hand. I have a playlist that I consistently update weekly. I really enjoy finding musicians or artists that are hidden gems. I tend to add music that is gut wrenching, heartfelt, and voices that stir the soul. I will play the song multiple times to embrace the music and lyrics separately before adding to ensure it fits the playlist. I call this playlist “Breathe in, Breathe Out.”
This playlist is cleansing and makes me think of so many things. This kind of music makes me reflect, reminisce, cry at times, and inspires my writing. I call this playlist “Breathe in, Breathe Out” because it brings clarity to the essence of life when I hear it. The music just makes me think about what is important and what isn’t.
My son consistently listens to it as well and it’s priceless to hear him singing the words to any song. I love hearing him sing. He sings so passionately and with joy. It’s a blessing to watch how music impacts him.
I’m not craving attention but your lightening connection. I’m not craving lust but the magic in our distance. I desire the conversation that is entwined and pure. I’m not craving anything hollow but the hunger within your desire. I’m not craving a fixation but the beauty of your gust.
I love how you make me feel, the ecstasy burning is real. I love how the flames surrounding never seem to get low, your brilliance always has an extraordinary glow.
I’m not craving the physicality but your alluring intelligence. I’m not craving your nails but your provocative touch. I desire the thirst and the hurricane between our fire. I’m not craving your luscious skin but the magnetic pull between us.
I love how you make me feel, the magnificent sensation is real. I love how the blaze within continues to rise, your affection was always smoldering in your burgundy eyes.
I photographed the cruelty spoken from your lips I no longer needed your warmth I photographed the lies that reverberated in your façade I no longer needed your touch I photographed the memories that had cracks with less meaning I no longer needed your approval I begin to dream wide and fell in love with the colors of my passions I photographed the emptiness and your signature dipped in carelessness I no longer needed your comfort I photographed the deceit and the war in your stubborn eyes I no longer needed your backbone I photographed the distance you created from the lack of affection I no longer needed your devotion I begin to see my strengths and embraced my weaknesses And you faded into the tears of the wind
It’s 5am, I’m carrying those restless thoughts like a backpack over my shoulder. I’ve tumbled through an existence with my freudian slips, gray instincts, and coarse satire. I’ve been dripping misery on the edges of my inner shell. I’ve been playing with matches with ten foot flames higher than my self doubt. Take a long long look at me and you may see yourself. The only distinction is that I’m not afraid to seek for help.
I was the ghost that you were afraid at the age of five.Remember when I made you smile when you wanted to cry. I was there when your world caved and you couldn’t move. I was there when the doubters left and shouted “you have nothing to prove.” I was there when your scenery started to change. I was there when you took all the blame. Here we are, seeing nothing is the same. Where does the ghost go from here?
It’s 5am, I’ve got nonsensical riddles on display and the Gods are poking fun at the answers. I’ve been talking to myself with a straight jacket and heckling the clowns in the audience because it feels like I’m on stage. I stumble with society because I force rhymes because I’m staring at a blank page. Take a long look at me and you may see yourself. The only distinction is that I’m not afraid to seek for help.
I was the ghost you made love to at the age of sixteen.Remember when I held you in my arms in silence when your nightmares wanted to scream. I was there when your world crumbled and you couldn’t move at all. I was there when the people around you started to build walls. I was there when the colors of your painting started to fade. I was there when your soul needed to be saved. Here we are, everyone is gone and I remain.Where does the ghost go from here?
I am the color black wrapped up in a midnight curse torture dripping down my bleached face gripping on to the endangered lies whispers growling in my prejudice ears sorrow was a door to throw away my beliefs clutching on to the skeleton chain tomorrow weeps from my skewed perception, stumbling in the waterfalls, praying to blurry shadows and the sinister moon, I sip on the poison of a poor man’s cup and I hide in the mist to make me blind Lord, save me from the lake of screams
I am the color black severed from the spinning rainbow buzzards flying around my dying tree decaying stains, fumbling in the dark crawling toward the vibrations of the stigma haunted by my twitching nerves anxiety and insecurities boiling on the inside grief jumbled, agony waltzing carrying heartbreak over my shoulders I quietly stare into the atoms of my distress molecules sizzling, bloodstream crying depths of discomfort, circling headaches and I seek grace with a pitchfork and knives Lord, save me from the lake of screams
I am the color black ripped from the sobbing vermillion sky distinctively malevolent, serene and ill tarnished and frozen, inside the frostbite slightly obscene, smothered in vile a predator within, carrying a tarantula grin vertigo parading, obscurity blending corrosion running down my esophagus A diabolical mind dipped in scarlet oil walking with a criminal like scent cemetery gray with a pinch of graveyard dirt a night crawler climbing in your memory spellbinding oblivion, twisted secrets Lord, save me from the lake of screams
I am the color black unhinged and sadistic salivating from the burns, scatterbrained, splash of schizophrenia, thousand microscopic splinters in my cornea I’m a child of the fifth obsidian scarecrow untouched apricot skin, labeled as a dead end, hunger promenading, brisk spasms lightning smacks across my crimson back fractured, friction is my lifeless mother I live in a atmosphere of short breaths and gasping for oxygen among my bothers consistently sucker punched and jabbed with crude remarks, self esteem is hollow Lord, save me from the lake of screams
I am the color black characterized as the lustrous sin specks of halcyon, spots of carmine symbolizing annihilation and wreckage disfiguring truth, a heinous sparkle I strut with apocalyptic and corrupt nerves veins filled with cynicism and suspicion doubt trickling, hyperboles drooling nonstop fiction rolling off my slanderous lips sugarcoated fabrication stewing I’ve shaped my ruthless tombstone Viciousness is my fathers favorite drink I’ve learned to slurp vengeance Lord, save me from the lake of screams
I am the color black stamped as a disastrous villain I smirk at tragedy and illuminate within magic, identified as a slithering savage I slap hope with a monstrous hand distinguished as liquid monstrosity I despise faith and lurch in your nightmares venom is like loose change in my pockets I’ve exchanged bitten conversations with corpses in my slaughterous backyard quietly, I am the joker who plays with satire and explosive irony, kiss the rage on my cheek, I am the gift you are afraid to open Lord, save me from the lake of screams
Would you be my savior between the echoes and my morning screams? Would you paint the daffodils in my lucid dreams? Would you erase the smirk from my face? Would you ever remove the melancholy from my darkest place? Would you ever silence me and rip the rhymes from my tongue? Would you gather all the pieces from my heart and mold them back to one?
Will you be my joy and sorrow dripping from my eyes? Will you be my forever and never say goodbye? Will you make promises that you won’t break? Will you learn from the blisters and the comforting mistakes? Will you hold me until the midnight cracks? Will you always have your tenderness send shivers down my back? Will you be my thunder and lightning that my pupils adore? Will you be the one to beside me forevermore? Will you be my waterfall when the wind loses all control? Will you fall in love with my weaknesses and the fragrance of my soul?
Could you be the one to calm my rattled nerves? Could you be the one to hold me when our road curves? Could you be the one to have all the answers to my endless questions? Could you be the song with a sweet hidden message? Could you be the one that makes me smile and laugh in the afternoon rain? Could you be my constant when everyone decides to change? Could you be the one that sets my heart on fire? Could you be the one to fulfill all of my desires? Could you be the one that feels my heart beat? Could you be the one that makes my life complete?
Storm of Ink 