Dolcé Vita.

Eyes like the silhouette of Sicilian sunsets so majestic.
A marble mind carved carefully, with time; prophetic.
His humour could sell out shows at the Apollo.
With a sensitive flair, and sun-kissed hair, his will be a hard act to follow.
Roman nose, defined, and Aquiline; his every feature is disarming.
Floating through my Venetian canals, this Florentine was a natural prince charming.
But most importantly, his heart was Hercules, and his spirit was prosecco sweet.
He would die a thousand times trying to fulfill your every single dream. 
Pray to the Vatican, that we should never part,
I'm Juliet, he's Romeo. 
This boy has captured my heart.

Cobblestone.

Glorious gigantic greenery
filled fantastic flights of thievery.
A thimble; a thin, symbol of servitude,
as symmetrical as pulchritude.

Beauty surrounds all the things we do,
sometimes it's in taupe, others in blue.
Grabbing at levitating atoms
lies a grisly, gnarled rattle.

Games of houndsteeth,
patches of crimson,
line sterile streets with seeds and peat,
like we're in prison.

Catfish catch us at our weakest,
when we're desperate, in secret.
A candid snapshot of us on Tuesday,
mothers no longer tell us who's gay.

Geysers, canals of chaos create my cityscape,
Typhoons wash our troubles off to seabreak.
Hyperventilating, so I take away my hand.
Hold onto me as we spin, I'll add vision to your wasteland.

With fingers tousling your green hair,
my lips will kiss you til you grin.
Crafty soldiers hold my ego hostage,
until you became my breakfast sausage.

When we, crystallize then come together,
we never separate for stormy weather.
Call me whatever you want to,
I'll be a ghoul while I haunt you.

Have a fever, let it take me over;
I'm powerless under your persona.
Six on the stick when we drive,
seduce me whilst I kiss the sky.

Like it or not—you know I'm your guy,
know you believe me when you look into my eyes.
Pull up skirt, then swallow your pride, 
since I know your tears already dried.

Prove to police fame comes at a price,
You don't have to tell it to me twice.
Hop on up, let's see what's so different 
when I know we're both out here 
counting dividends.

Asylum.

Losing my mind was like swallowing hot coals—it stole the words from off my tongue. A treason like no other, even though we anticipate that it will burn. Embers lit up my mouth from the inside, like walls of a cavern lit entirely by torch. 

When my brain malfunctioned, my grasp on reality suddenly became loose. Unraveling like serotonin silly string until all that remained was one big knot. As my sanity escapes, all that was left is a pile on the floor of mess. 

I lose track of time as I obsess about an idea that evolves into branches that make up a nest. Twigs of delusion turn into entire trees when subjected to neglect. Dopamine twice a day does nothing to improve my self-respect.

I search the seafloor for something familiar to swim alongside with, making my way upstream until I can tell fish apart from their tailfins. Saved crocodile tears in a sandcastle—oysters reveal pearls of oxytocin alabaster.
It is finding yourself in quicksand sinking faster than a shotgun romance. A pair of rusting lock and key attached to some bridge in Prozac, France.

The metallic taste of mania often enlists the assistance of anxiety, especially when steel-spangled spices offer little in the way of variety. Pepper was better than ever back when salt was still secret, my pulse becomes a clock who only measures what's too soon to be revealed yet. Ticking thyme listens as time talks of things it wishes it had done. 

One arm's uneven the other's at odds, this unstable season's unreasonably hot. Going crazy was easier once I'd been driven there before, who said mental illness always left a suicide note scratched into stubborn cellar doors. 

On my way back to the real world, silence was the only schoolmate I knew I could trust, for even when she was pin drop quiet, her heart still sighed the heaviest. This Bipolar beauty was wickedly brilliant in battling her own serpentine uncertainty, hissing wildly as she slithered back to a sense of reptilian sobriety. 

Sheroism.

If Coco Chanel played by the rules herself
then there would be no iconic Number Five,
but ever since this mademoiselle raised Hell,
the fashion world was fiercely brought to life.

Indira Gandhi's ruthlessness
is how she rewrote India's history,
waging war for independence,
she was a state of emergency.

Dancing her way to the top of the charts,
Madonna's world tours sold out at every stop.
She used sex as a weapon to open her heart,
until she became the reigning queen of pop.

Refusing to slave another day, 
Harriet Tubman was determined to be free,
this renegade helped others run away,
on a route to the north country.

Some women prefer chains and oppression, 
so they silently accept all that is unfair.
This is why the good girls go to Heaven, 
but the bad girls go everywhere.