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[ourriveroflethe-blog]

I could compare you to a cliche another figure in life. Yet how unfair would that be to you a flower who has endured such strife.

You see I could niche you into a petal or a rose,

Yet how has either one fought back when opposed.

You see things wrong with yourself as is the same with myself

Yet between the two of us it is I who needs the most help.

You are comparable to a nosebleed so unexpecting.

Or perhaps you are not a rose but yet the sun,

The sunshine to my life I have yet to begun.

Yet to me you are the moon in the skies

For you signify the end to a day- the end to my lies.

So, I admit i... Feel for you so.

When more than my addiction to my woes.

[ourriveroflethe-blog]

I died.

Part 1:

Three times in my life I have died.

When I was a child, I was pulled out to the sea.

Endless arms welcomed my body and sought to me until I could no longer breathe.

I fell under the compassion.

I can say that I woke up in a desert, as endless as the sea itself.

Smoldering heat and wind etching its marks into the sides of the hills of sand.

A slow walk turned into a run, a voided figure reaching out to me in the distance.

Yelling to take her hand.

Hesitant because it is a hand that killed me then and ironic for a hand to save me now.

I reached for her hand, our’s mere centimeters apart, I awoke on a beach, with hands holding my body- Some put together in a form of prayer.

I was six, today I am twenty-three. I wonder if me dying then would have been a merciful proposition, instead of living through the tragedies I have.

Perhaps all this time, death. Was a helping hand.

[ourriveroflethe-blog]

Hm.

Funny how I lose my will to write when I am not encumbered by love.

As if I need an external factor to be my muse,

everything else is a distraction against abuse.

I want to say I used to use, but i’d still be using.

Perusing through old songs that revived tragic memories,

Photos seen through a shutter, juxtaposed by illuminations of the tram filtering through the pillars of a subway.

I do not remember much.

Maybe its better that way.

Even when you are no longer around,

its funny how these poems are still about you.

[ourriveroflethe-blog]

Ignoring my mental abuse,

glorifying sickening secular skeletal cues,

movements of thought so obtuse, that would bury themselves,

threateningly deep within my grooves,

reducing my stride into something you ride,

feet and hands reduced to hooves.

the boiling blood of a man,

replaced by hops and booze.

because happiness became something I can use!

Use, use and use.

Nevertheless still use...less...

“You have it under control.”

I had addictions under control,

the bottoms of bottles,

escape in a syringe,

and countless one night stands that I could confide within.

But where do I begin? I can find my addiction and I have it under control,

but one look at my life... control?

I really dont.