Autobiography

He was the drug of his own infections.
Alcohol to his own intoxication.
He was the flavourless shot of cola straight to the vein.
The antidote,
Anecdote of his own brain.

He was the rightful owner of the dusty corner.
Symptoms of his own cancer.
He was the red light shining through the borderline traffic.
The petrichor,
Afterglow of his own trick.

He was the sun to his own moon.
Night to his morning.
Fever to his own health.
He was his own God.
The perfect creator of his 1994 beating heart.

Noche

I. The child in white resembles the rage that is currently drenched by the acid water from the bottomless skies. His red balloon is slowly letting itself go from the innocent grip of the young boy. As if he has no bravery left in him. No judgement. No attention. No. Nothing.

II. It is easy for us to run barefooted through the wet ground and misty sight. But it will be hard for us to be found, no matter how "found" we are going to feel while we're drifting in the silent song of the rain. It is an endless misery that every single lost soul has to feel in their pitch black life.

III. The rain is shattered on the tip of my tongue. The distance between the sour blue stars and midnight smoke is getting blurred as the night grew colder. Tonight we can write the saddest lines; feel, or nothing at all.

Hermit

Acidic hermit in a sealed room,
Claustrophobic eyes are slowly distorting my tangled minds.
Blind faith hanging on the scratched windows, and morphed sorrows.
I talk to my own again,
This selfless soul is more than hollow.

Former pageant dolls stripping on the burial dance floor,
Blank stare up on the starless skies, whispering nonsense, making tragedy.
Little did they know about the codes, and morse.
Silent applause are consuming their blossoming thoughts,
Dissolving, and devouring every single inch of their fraud.

Tear up my old wounds, teenage slits, and unconscious wars.
Burn the bouquets, light up the feast, set this closeted asylum into pouring water.
Drown my empty words, and drink up the remaining verses.
If I could close my eyes, and count to six maybe the world would turn inside out.

Aoraki

Charge the Amethyst under
The pale blue moon.
Divide my crackling bones into
Pieces of handwritten letter.
And dust our elder's memorabilia
That we traced up in the attics.

We have forty years to talk about
Our lonely mountains, and ashy hearts.
Dribbling sunrise into starlight
In front of the wintering porch from the coldest field in a fictional work.

We have million paths to go;
No more weapons,
No more disclosure to the fragments of our weary fingers.
It's getting harder to choose in this misty light of amber.

We have a little less to frown;
Braided leaves struck your feet before you drown,
Blood red vine into our lungs,
It's getting easier to breathe this time around.