lia

Ludic youth turns her to a vacant quean,a heart to brim with tristful- witch of medieval

Frowning,screaming,anger of storms.

The silent screaming becomes loud at dawn.

Wishing the sun a cursed goodbye.

All his rage melts in the poison of night.

Deaf to the snores,relish to the skies.

A drystan soul turns to a seraphic expression.

Ended thirst from the dark of transcience.

Dances under the elysian moonlight.

And-when the ebony ends.

Returns the toska within him again.

Longing for the feeling which diminishes senses.

He whispers I love you every midnight

The avarice of light the addiction of fright.

When its gone he remains ineffable.

The sun didn't rise,the night didn't fall.

Grief said hello as the ill stood there.

"How do you get over someone who was never yours?

Who do you blame when you've broken your own heart?"

-poetryabouthim

"Maybe...you'll fall in love with me all over again."

"Hell," I said, "I love you enough now. What do you

want to do? Ruin me?"

"Yes. I want to ruin you."

"Good," I said. "That's what I want too."

"Yes," he swallows thickly as if the words were like sand paper grating his tongue, "yes you meant nothing to me, you never did." I knew he was lying, but that didn't make it hurt any less, he was my best friend and even if I tried with all my heart, I could never fully hate him."

The man who named my narrow bed was a quiet person, but he had good questions. "I suppose you do love me, in your way, way," I said to him one night close to dawn when we lay on the narrow bed. "And how else should I love you-in your way?" he asked. I am still thinking about that.

-Charles Bukowski

Hate the unspoken echo silenced by the rustle of frowns.

What was even the fault of the disc when the phonograph was rigged so loud.