all I have are my words

[weuneigh]

won't you let the petals rot along with her?

For how we're so inclined To flock the consequence of mortality To witness the decay Were you there to behold their bloom before the inevitable?

or is that imperishable rose all you have to offer?

[weuneigh]

The earth beneath my feet is not mine

I own no threads No circles, no ink No lament, no limbo No time to think These bones I hold Can't be controlled No strings attached To keep me latched The ground I stand Is not my land I own no skin No teeth to grin The words I didn't own Compelled who Compelled you No one, nobody I have nobody I have no body I lost the plot But all this time maybe I never had it At the very least, I brought back the rhyme; for

The earth beneath my feet is not mine

[weuneigh]

Another Bearer of The Circumference

Draw the wine from our arms now Drink the pact we'll form today For tomorrow the moon will come its glow will glisten upon us over our stained skins my marred hands and heed this I hold no doubt you will retreat the circle The second you see the damage A prophecy fulfilled in cycles until desperation finally possessed my veins and now here we are I'd wound my knees and plead you to stay but the deed was done you're in this limbo with me now.

[weuneigh]

To The Dwellers of The Middleground

And for all who never walked along the edges of a trying cliff, Yet followed no golden brick road to eventually stray on No sin, no glory, no ease, no worry Heed this: You are welcomed not in God’s embrace, and shunned away from the Devil’s lair. Your dithering shall carve your descent to limbo and there you will spend eternity Chasing a flag as bleak as your soul Plagued by hornets, plagued by flies Your skin so red with blood with tears welling in your eyes. There will be no other melody than your empty tongue begging for mercy.

[weuneigh]

No rain could shield me from my own denial

Perhaps they won't see it running down my cheeks but as the downpour surged on my tongue catches hints of my salty anguish and I know the misery is still there I mourn that they think the rain would wash it all away.

[weuneigh]

But Maybe it is a Facade

I don't have to know it's real You don't have to say it's false Just let me breathe on Under a set of stars Not of our own Sans knowing they're birthed From shiny blue stones It's better this way, okay? I don't wish to be alive I just wish I was alive

[weuneigh]

This is Not a Facade

The sordid water washed my unease away The chains dissipate when I don't recognize my name The cycle runs better When I barely remember That this is not a game In these pages ink full of false words I bury my detested consciousness And I hold the hands of forged carcasses Their fingertips free of calluses Their wounds bleed paint as designed by the pen I lock my heart away in a prideless lion's den I will never produce the courage To pick up that gun The game barely started And the villain already won

[weuneigh]

no wilting flowers for the fallen

your bloody roses paint no sympathetic melodies I don't hear the alleged heartache humming through your veins you dipped them in paint, didn't you? you clawed to move me for you could never move you but the melancholy dissipates the moment you breathe it out of me you never had the hands to grasp the reality of mourning a wilted rose

[weuneigh]

I won't be there at the wake

The morning rain welcomed my overdue departure The blooming flowers wilt as I bid my farewell For they knew the final rally neared its inevitable encore No need to beat the dead horse when its cries grew to bore Let's bury the hatchet, and then my tears, and then my skin And then my flickering soul The bells are ringing Aren't you glad? I fought hard.

[weuneigh]

Hubris Was Never Icarus' Downfall

Tell me why I can't get a solid grip Of the clouds that welcome me For a second I'll breathe their purity And the next I'm crashing down Without even a residue of the smoke I'm left to sink again between the soil And the muck, the soot, the mud My lungs had never been so greedy But as the calendars wasted away They're hungry now, so hungry, please My tongue desires—no, it needs more More than the gas you asphyxiate me with More than this key to the path of monotony Was it really a sin to want more Than this dimness I've lived with for so long?

[weuneigh]

hopelessly in love with the misery that isn't mine

And the crevices of my being Manifested this longing For the misery I never owned A weight I never carried Yet I push to insist I shoulder With a back that was never burdened With even the weight of a single feather Bring me the real thing So that my lips are finally sewn shut With a thread my tears cannot cut And maybe this one limbo would end.

[weuneigh]

The last man standing earns no applause

Our reality is apathy We sink our nails to the dirt without rhyme or reason only a futile cause When all is said, and all is done The last man standing earns no applause And all his gilded bouquets are stained by another's discontinued ambition. There will be no battle cry in the name of they who had fallen in this disposition There's no winning in an exchange of hatred that endured a hundred dawns, a thousand dusks When the dust is settled and the iron rusts All that remains are honorless husks

A victory celebration? You and what army?

[weuneigh]

Cowardice is a Double-Edged Sword

Oh, all our empty promises of morbid liberation, distorted negotiations, with our corporeal disposition to perceive anything besides affliction and yet, we always fail at execution. That is nature, That is us.

[weuneigh]

The Blur is Promised to Never Forsake Me

I fall for pretty words all the time I confuse their misery as something that is mine Hollow metaphors; mere eye candy to the ears I cherrypick the words That correlate with my wounds And I swallow the whole paragraph Letting it settle in my stomach And like tradition, I doom myself To loathe the blur in the mirror But will the sentiment remain Should I consume nothing at all?

[weuneigh]

As The Saying Goes

My futile wings lead me back To your melting pyre Do you see how I burn? How hundreds of my irises Home in to the fiery rivers Swirling in your pupils I'm strangled in your web And yet I hunger for you To feast on me.

[weuneigh]

To live comes with the bloody price of seeing the shadows that crept beneath the tables. We have no say on where the hues desire to flourish, but it shall be us who will face the consequences; it shall be us who will be receiving the short end of the stick should pastels reside amongst the coffins that have fulfilled their duty to hide those who can no longer perpetuate this earth.

May your eyes hold the grit to perceive the real through a lens not of your own, but of one that leeches off of a skin that has never held a bruise, and perhaps your feet may don a pair that has crawled through more than mud and ash, more than soot and sweat.

Blood knows no discrimination. Even they whose fingertips have yet to touch the shade we try so hard to shield them from will taste the iron. It is due to this inevitability that we ought to simply remove our hands from the reins and watch the tides, the leaves, the smoke, and the dirt to curl on its own, to allow these stained hands or otherwise to spread wide and engulf the morbidity.

It is the cost this reality demands of us and to escape it is akin to turning one’s back to the sun. It is still there, the warmth will still be perceived, and those irises will eventually soak them in. It is a fruitless endeavor to resist. To be or not to be, you are here, until you are not, and now it is all in your hands, your palms, and your fingertips to decide which shadow, which reflection, you’ll choose to carry; otherwise, they will decide it for you.

[weuneigh]

a party sans tea, a party for thee

the teacups were dry the napkins unfolded, stained the chairs, splayed haphazard as though a whirlwind had arrived and left without care and perhaps it did a whirlwind of friendships and heartache as shards of teacups colored the floor but there were no tea stains, no for the friendships were spent and out they went with no more tea, there was naught to be done.