Songs of Sleep from Pan and his Lover

You came suddenly, like a fork splitting a one way road.
Shit. I can't tell which path I'm on. Can you see me? 

It was like walking through a mirror. The glass shatters. Cuts my finger. I'm alright. 

I live. My bleeding is my personal ritual and reminder of my being human. 

We've both admitted to our addiction and our longings. The mirror is personified. 

Yes, it has a name. I've been trying to figure it out.
Again, I can't sleep at night. I'm too excited about tomorrow. What is tomorrow?
Are you there tomorrow? Are you there, now? Are you me, still?
Fragmented into a million pieces of dancing atoms, The light reflects off the broken glass.
I can see now.

Have we been swallowed by the labyrinth? the illusion of our divided being? 

You seem to be fine, in a strange way. We've returned to our broken homes; those planets in complete misunderstanding. But is that not the easy way out? is that not the antithesis of our purpose? Let's stick to what we know, yea. Let's deal with anything other than ourselves, that way we can live stress free, worry-less lives. 

Stop. Don't look at her. Don't pay any attention to that moon inside of you that speaks to you in dreams and reminds you which way is up.

She's lying.
I can smell it. 
Don't read this.
It's a freshly-scented female.
She carries your soul.
It would be too devastating to let go of your merry-go-round world to step into that part of yourself that sings you to sleep and wishes you weren't such a stranger.

Mopped Your Floors With Me

This poem is specially dedicated to a friend I once considered real.

A short lived friendship.

Too short. Like daisy dukes that ride up your ass. 
I don't know why I cared about this person so goddamn much, but I did. 
I cared for him the way Mother Teresa fed the poor. 
I believed in him the way the Sun comes out of our throats. 
So short lived.

The moment I peered inside you was the moment you washed the floors with me. 
You used a cheap artificial pine cleaner, the kind you buy at the dollar store that leaves streaks all over the tile and is so diluted it makes the house smell like rain water that had seeped into the backseat of a car and was never drained. I grew up with that sort of shit. That superficial smell. A chemical used to cover up something far worse, like rotting insides.

You avoid facing yourself because you hold a fly swatter and yet you are that very fly that pesters only himself. It is you, wanting to understand you, not allowing yourself to. Sometimes, the very thing that kills us is the thing that gives us life. But you decided to die to yourself, and so you went.

And you nailed the doors shut and secured them with horizontal planks. 
Keep it all in. 
Keep it all in. 
The monster is already inside. 
Delete me. 
Delete yourself. 
The monster won't go away. 
The monster is both god and the devil. 
After a few shots of your favourite liquor, you can't tell the difference, but as long as you are sober, your mind fucks you with a blindfold and gag. It's only after the effects of his date rape drug that you realized you fucked yourself. But that will probably never happen because you're spiking your own excuse for self-destruction.

Don't worry. You aren't the only one. I love you. This much is true. but you are nothing without your human drama. Only static in place of silence. At least the drama gives you life. It gives you a reason to feel and to feel real. I once believed you were real. Now, I remember you were only imagined by me. Created by every thought of me. Died off by every fear of me. 
You did it. 
You won. 
The monster mopped his floors with me... 
and his very own tears.