There is a world that is different.


It comes and goes, like roses blooming-
But in this world, the flowers grow in winter;

Crimson wounds on the season’s ivory skin.
Summer comes like an executioner,
But her axe is a slow suffocation in golden hands.


This world leaves you choking for air

Water is replaced with tissue paper-
If you’re not drowning, you’re cracking,
Blood boiling and dissipating in red clouds that don’t go away.
This world has two magpies where a heart should be
-one for sorrow, two for joy-
Only invested in stealing the sparkly things from your eyes.


In this world, a second is a hundred years.
The clock hands turn so fast it sets on fire and

Leaves life a weed, a dandelion in the garden-
You can either make a wish by it or tear it out.
Somehow, we have to believe that there is something more
but like a sand-timer, we become emptier and emptier as time continues in its chase.


Loneliness is your best friend, your ex, your family here
She has peeling fingernails as red and raw as her lips from kissing death-

Her heart is an instrument that she plays every day.
That’s why the strings are worn, faded, and sound flat,
No matter how much you tune it. Her eyes tell a thousand unfinished stories that
Nobody wants to read; and
Somehow there’s not a moment in this world where you want to hear anything else.


This world is not so different from our own-

It’s only a dark night of letting go,
Being pulled out too far out to shore but not far enough out to sea
To become a raging tsunami-
the darkness whispers what the angels cannot
sadness wails like a mourning mother outside the window.
It’s feeling your heart steadily beat and wondering why

Your ribcage doesn’t break from the constant thunder-
the eye of the hurricane is too cold, too quiet, 
and people blow around like storms on the outside.


Everything fades to grey.