midnight song

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The morning you realise you love her; coffee with cream left a bittersweet taste in the tip of your tongue the morning paper did not swirl it’s attractiveness against your figertips creamcheese is no longer vital, your cat purrs beside the kitchen table, her perfume is all around. The morning you realise you love her; for a change walking to work sounded better than taking the bus, someone speeds past and gets your coat soaked in ‘last night puddle of hopes people left on the street’ a stray dog trembles meanwhile the bagle you packed for lunch becomes its meal of the day. You text her good morning, you send over a thousand kisses.   You can hear your boss screaming in the background, your co workers seems stressed. Pausing between taking calls your heart seems to be fond of speeding without consent. You love her, this is not how you planned it, you know what being lonely is like, and the false illusion of what toyed with your heart, the lies of the past and the image of cheap love it offered you. You've struggled, you've kept your distance, and you still love her...and she loves you back.

‘The morning’ - p.d

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The thing about your fingers is how they leave nicotine prints across my skin, like tattooed heart shaped bruises. I became a cat always licking at the wound, empty lungs filled with mold my heart is a nest o vipers waiting for the chance to inject their venom into my bloodstream, I am dying and so are you. Your mouth curls around the nape of my neck whispering 'baby I love you this time is the right one' you touch me and is a dead wound I'm haunted. the thing about this love and it's constant need of coming crashing down burying me underneath like 20 ft underground gasping for oxygen, your arms wrapped around my rotting body, my decaying body. I'm dying again the thing about a fox in love with a cat and their need of clawing at one other... -one nail deep in 'I love you'- a whole set of nails sinking in our skin 'baby I didn't mean it' the thing about my praying heart and it's need of a snake charmer and I'm dying, you're dying.

’snake charmer’- p.d

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The last time you said you were done with me I laughed it off as my intestines became ablaze. Pearls clashed against, digits curled into a fist, I still laughed it off. Jesus Christ, take a look in the mirror you won't do better than me. I repeat, every single fucking night. Look, I'm a tempest but you knew that before we started. And I can't fucking stand the way you look at me at times. But the last forsaken time you said we were done. I smoked my lungs out and my mother kept saying I needed to turn down the volume. I probably slammed my own head against every pole on the way to school. Look, I admit I'm hard to love but you are the only one who gets me. And running into you the other day gave me phantom sensations, of your hair against the tip of my fingers. It stopped feeling good without you the moment we started.

'Peaches & blue'- p.d

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You are eighteen and there is this boy, he is eighteen too. You are eighteen and he thinks you are sweet disgustingly sweet, you date someone and he still thinks you are. You are nineteen and he says you're the sun if not then the moon. You are twenty and he walks in and out you want to see him again he says no. You are twenty and he says maybe later, maybe tomorrow, maybe in six months. You are twenty and he says 'I cannot meet you', he says 'I'm scared, he says 'If I see you I will definitely be in love', he says he's not ready and leaves. You have gone far ever since but one night you remember the boy who is now a man who's legs took him away from loving you, he is the coward. You are no longer a girl he is no longer a boy. You remember your eighteen year old self and the nights spent with the guy who ran away.

'The coward' - p.d

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I keep writing poems to hands that refuse to touch me I keep writing poems to hearts that refused to love me I keep writing poems to people who abandoned me I keep writing poems to shadows and memories I keep writing poems to once upon a year ago I keep writing poems to 'I like you but not in that way' I keep writing poems to 'I was drunk sorry for the text' I keep writing poems to vodka bottles I keep writing poems to cigarette boxes I keep writing poems to lost ligthers I once owned I keep writing poems to getting over you I keep writing poems to being all alone

"I keep writing" - (p.d)

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You are my right kind of nice. Like two sugar with my coffee. Like british and milk with their tea. You are my right amount of sunshine. Like sitting in the front porch at 9 am when the sun is not burning. Like 5:59 pm before the sky is entirely black. Like the christmas morning and opening presents when I was still a kid. You are the right amount of struggle. Like studying for a final and getting the good grade. Like learning how to drive and getting my permit. Like an old friend paying for my food when I am broke. You are the right kind of pain. Like peeling dead skin off my shoulders after a day in the beach during summer. Like scrapping my knee because I chased after someones dog. Like biting my lip in desire. You are the right everything. The perfect white like snow. The perfect black like the frozen lake I used to go with my brother when I was little. The perfect sweater my grandmother gave me when I was 10. You are the perfect size, the perfect taste, the perfect struggle, the perfect hope. Just not mine.

"You're not perfect after all"- p.d

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People like to say, that sitting in the livingroom at 2 p.m. is the romantic equivalent to heartbreak, but this is not heartbreak is loss, cold is not the digits in fahrenheit cold is the sensation of your lungs unable to expand cold is your veins peeling themselves open wide cold is internal bleeding and clinical death. It is 2 p.m. and you are not too sure if it still is winter or if you will ever experience the summer warmth again and you know, there's nothing beautiful in the splinters covering your hands and there's nothing beautiful in the ways your body trembles it is 2 p.m. and for some reason suddenly the universe chose to be silent. Do you call this a life or is it only surviving, they keep trying to congratulate you for making it through a second time, a third time, a forth a fifth... you are a moth loving the light but the light does nothing else but try to kill you.

"2pm"- p.d

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Development 

november 24-2013 / october 30 2014

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My mother said I needed to know of gentle loving. I've been all nails and teeth for half of my life. And when I like something I pull it apart turn it into small pieces I can craddle in my hands, but I've always had the habit of throwing it aside. So mom said 'when you see shattered bones and raw meat stop. Broken people become hemophiliac, you will catch yourself with blood in your hands and even parts of you where it isn't suppoused to stain'. So I think what she really meant was to look out for the one who would walk in and tore down the walls. I see pieces of you scattered all over the world, and do you recall how God told Adan he was dust? I think God meant we fall apart and our particles fill up the air and the wind takes us to places we had never even seen. Okay but look, the water is also everywhere. Like did you know oxygen is dry so when you have trouble with breathing they pass the oxygen through water so that your lungs don't collapse? And everywhere in my room is humid my father keeps telling me to open the windows but it just doesn't go away. My dog wags it's tail at the sound of my voice and I wonder if in Taiwan a girl got brokenhearted. And I wonder why we call it 'brokenheart' wouldn't it fit better call it 'burnthearted, stomphearted, death?' Who knows. I read on the newspaper a woman in China spent a week in a restaurant after being dumped and the picture was sad, her hair got greasy and I wonder if it is smart of me to let love take my heart. But look, I have been chasing after for long enough and my knees never were good for running, I lack the coordination to do two things at once. And mom keeps on reminding to be softer. She doesn't know I met you, okay maybe she does but she cannot put together how I became this mess. I've been coughing out pieces of cotton and my insides are tangled. Did you know the female body has the ability of rearrenging the organs for when there's a baby inside. But sometimes I think this ability was given for us to use all the time. Like when someone makes our fingertips burn without touching and then it feels like in my stomach a falcon unfurled its wings and it keeps pecking at my lungs. I wonder how I havent died of shock, you know they aid you when your body is in shock because it could die if it doesn't come out of it? And maybe in the morning I will not get that shot and breathe again. And all along while thinking of million different things to compare falling for someone. I kept asking to have my heart given back, but my bones are laughing at me and say that I wasn't made with the requirements to run. And the last time mom said 'be soft' I smiled at her and said "I'm nothing but." And I keep seeing how lungs do nothing but breathe out our desires and hearts eat themselves and inside the bodies of many people there's probably a crime scene while 'love' rubs its hands and laughs every morning at the vision of us all not breathing.

"soft" - p.d

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I don't need to ask someone else whether you loved me or not. My hands stopped shaking at the sight of you. Look, I set you on fire. That's how it feels like when you burn alive. Shook the foundation for years thinking you had been dead all along. Look, I stopped longing. Once I read a poem about smoke signals and turning your back, I started a fire and told God it hadn't been my fault. You've been staring at your palms for the past four months and they still ache from the burn, peeled skin, raw muscle underneath. "Jesus Christ, I'm all ashes now." My mother still asks me if we speak, does yours do the same? She didn't like me, said I was going to ruin you. Anyway, the smoke signals I ignored were soft pleads of reaching out, but I am no saviour. How is it going with unlearning, I think bodies attract those bodies where they felt at home, how's it going with the blood in your fingertips? It no longer is my own, is all yours from scratching at your flesh. Say this is not how you make the skin forget is way harder than that is more complex. When I was a kid I learned how bees die after stinging which is why theyre reluctant of it. You've been howling for months now and my sore places have all healed. They say wild animals isolate themselves as they die, your shattered bones stopped moving you to places, you lie there ever since you got shot. Wondering whether you were the killer or the victim.

"Casualties" - p.d

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how do we end there though? here have my heart and blow up my skull with a single word here have my shivering bones and break them here have my fucking tongue and cut it off i will thank you for it how did we end up to this point to give another the entire ability to pull apart your skin and muscles like plucking out fingernails here they sit and touch and touch 'oh look this is breaking' 'oh look its falling apart' like taking a shotgun to the mouth and pulling the trigger

"falling in love " p.d

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This is how it happens for me; You show me your favourite song from one of your favourite bands and I cannot stop listening to it, I think about you every time I play a song from them, I play them when I want to feel more about you. This is how it happens for me; I dream about listening next to you all the songs they play it doesn't matter if we're in their concert or sitting in the livingroom, hell be it yours or be it mine, as long as you're there with me. This is how it happens for me; I imagine all those lyrics hide within their content your hopes, your fears, your dreams, do they mean to you that much? My dear, they mean a world to me now, they mean you. This is how it happens for me; One day you walk into my life, I am a house, the walls are all painted in colours you don't think fit the building, you smile, you shook your head, it doesn't matter "I can fix this" you say to yourself, I am still the house and the dusted rooms in me begin to tremble when you run your fingers across the edges, you open the windows, it's the first time I felt the breeze of the morning come in like that. I can hear your footsteps echoing all over the place, my veins become a highway for my blood to run fullspeed, this is how it happens for me, I was a house. I was a house, not old but abandoned and you walked in, you changed the colours of the walls, you opened the windows, you said "I think this place looks so much better when the sun shines all around it." Hell, you undusted me to the bone, the floor made out of wood shakes when you walk, because this house grew a heart, is it posible for abandoned buildings to learn about love? I believe it to be. This is how it happened to me; One day you looked at me, you believed I was good, you believed I had always been good, you made me good, and now I stopped being the house, I became a human.

"This is how you did it." p.d

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There is no pretty way of describing my feelings for you. My heart became a wolf, it grew teeth and it eats me up from the inside out. My rib cage is nothing but temporary jail to the monster it became. My heart is heavy rock no one can lift yet there is nothing but happiness around you. They said love is gentle, but... fuck. This is nothing alike to gentleness. My heart is furious and it craves for you. My hands they have been looking out to touch you. There is no peace for them until somehow your skin is underneath my nails. There is no peace in the way I feel for you. This is raw emotion eating me up. It kills me every night and resuscitates me in the morning. I have never seen as much blood until the day I met you. If the universe created us all to collide and destroy it surely never considered us meeting. I have been loving you every waking moment. Love was never meant to be compared with violence, rest assured though. I'm sure not everyone can feel their beating heart slam against the insides of their bones the way I do when you do as little as to say my name. I stopped comparing moths and winged creatures with the gut feeling when you talk to me. Amateur emotion of a crush. My feelings for you laugh in my face, they think its cute to see me crawl all over the floor. My heart is a beast caged and chained howling in desperation to be set free. And when I really think about it. I've been eaten alive on a daily basis holding no resistence. By the morning I will be alive once again.

"Almost a love poem but this is not THE poem." p.d

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There are insane moments when I feel the weight of the world pressed against my chest. And I cannot count minutes anymore, they turned into hours for me. I miss you like how they compare it to be, hell itself. I have dreamed about you each day of the week. You do nothing else but constantly cross my fucking mind. I have met with sadness over a dozen times in the past hours. Do you really want me feeling like this? I do not understand, I cannot come up with a possible solution to this problem. Say, today got so bad that I could swear I sensed your smell in the first floor of this house. I shut my door, hell I began to sniff into my wet hair to cover up memories. I am experiencing longing. Is this truly how it happens for me? We had been together every single day until recently and I cannot do this, it really is stronger than me. You cannot kiss a face and not feel a thing. You cannot hold a hand and not twist your stomach. Are you really this cold? Dammit I kissed you at any possible hour I could. It wasn't only morning kisses, we had 3 pm kisses, 8 pm kisses... 3 am. Your tongue was in my mouth, do you really feel complete? I lost count of the times I've cried the past week hoping you will call again. Is it really that my heart is so ridiculously soft that it torns itself around what needs to be loved? I don't think there is a human who doesn't feel. Do you really feel okay? Are you okay? Don't you feel it too. Like somebody is tearing apart your skin. Feeling your lungs be unable to inhale and exhale. Goddammit. I am out of my mind here. How do you rest your head at night without feeling blood dripping down your hands. Don't they miss my skin? What about your teeth? There's nothing but silence pilling up like dust against the door. I'm raw honest right here. I feel like I might just go insane out of how much I miss you and I didn't even love you.

"Talk to me, I'm losing my mind." p.d

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If hearts could explode out of how someone makes you feel, mine would be bursting right now. In all the differents way it was able to. All because of you.

"My heart loves you" -p.d

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I am real when I'm with you.