The Weight Of My Youth

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Wrap me up in polythene plastic. Saran wrap around my lungs, and I do this to myself too often.
Build cages of fractured bones and punctured skin, music to my ears the flattening of thoughts that burn up in my head. I could let my youth take the blame, the hollow timeframe of adolescence carrying the weight of every reckless choice I had made. From fifteen to eighteen, regret built a home inside my skull, a parasite I could not rid my body off. I’m still trying, trying to fight it.

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Infatuation, Empty| A Poem

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You make the sky blush
Irises erupting In shades of burning brown
Misery, in multitudes
Dripping from the cracks in your soul.

Unsettling truths that seem to shine through
Curtains of all your stories
Stitched in silk.

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The Boy With Bruises|A Short Story

They were sat outside a club watching the snow, hands buried deep inside pockets of jackets that weren’t nearly as warm as they needed them to be. Flushed cheeks and lips bitten down to flesh was what Dan saw when he looked to his right. The boy was shoving an unlit cigarette into his mouth a cancerous stick of smoke that always made Dan cough like his lungs were on their way out of his throat.

He caught Dan staring and smiled a half-smile gesturing for him to try.

Dan just shook his head and said, “I don’t smoke.”

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Astral Bodies|A Poem

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Two astral bodies floating through space.
Poetry penned across a page.
I may never be able to match your light, I might make you fade.

Two chapters in a book shut tight.
As it sits on a dusty bookshelf.
We are rotting away.

Mortal beings. Slaves of time.
In my mind,
You are celestial.
Angelic you hold too much inside.

While I am withering away,
The nothingness, emptiness, the void.
Taking over my body.
Blood vessels, skin and bone.

One by one till’ I’m gone.-H

He Was Art..

One day he told me he was dying, and it wasn’t cancer caused by the cigarettes we smoked out back in his yard. It wasn’t a disease he caught from when he spent to much time at his Grandpa’s place in that weird old town. 

He told me it was his brain, he told me it was bleeding, bleeding creativity. He told me he was dying, or at least the artist inside if him was. He told me that at this point he was gone. 
But I said that there had to be a cure, surely this couldn’t be the end. But his art was his cure, and he could feel it seeping through his viens, and out of his body. He could feel his soul drifting, his eyes like holes, agape. 

And I knew where all of it was going, it was now inside of me. His laughter, his amusement, the way he would move his hands, flailing them around and up into the air. His energy had danced it’s way into my heart and now he was worn out.

Because I took everything, everything but his sickness. A sickness that now lived within him.

 His art was gone. He wasn’t the same boy I met at a bus stop late at night. And I was kinda high but I told him I thought he was cute and his haircut was sorta funny. He laughed it off and the very next day he was sat at a barber’s shop.
And I could feel my eyes burn when they would conjure up those painful tears I deserved. 

I made him feel like he had lost it, when all along he was it. 
He was art when the whole room looked at him in awe, the way he would move his feet, that birth mark on his chin, right below his lower lip. The way he would slide his arm around my waist, and that winking of his that looked more like blinking but I didn’t fight him on it. 

And he was still art when his hair had grown down to his shoulders, when no one would bat him an eye, he was still art when he sat in his apartment late at night, he was still art when he couldn’t sleep, he was still art when he spilled his tea, his hands couldn’t stop shaking. He was still art to me.

The artist in him was still alive, because art can never truly die. H