Some days I fear
I smell of suicide,
my decaying thoughts
reeking, seeping
through my pores,
staining the very air around me,
invading the nostrils
of passersby, companions,
potential lovers, causing
them, forcing them,
to quicken their steps,
make their excuses,
turn their eyes away,


leaving me alone
to swelter
in my oil-black thoughts,
my imbalanced chemicals,
my fears for my future,
or lack of thereof.


© Edward Lee




The brightest colours
dream of greys
and whites,
murmur in their sleep
of shadows
and grayscale,
of days end
and starless nights.


The brightest colours
dream of invisibility,
of being present
but absent,
witnesses to what occurs
when they are not around,


a silent preparation
for an inevitable tomorrow.


© Edward Lee




Something is alive
behind my eyes,
something foreign,
alien, not a part of me.


I can feel it move,
existing in the nothing
that breathes
while I sleep.
And it whispers
into the birth of my wakening,
words that itch,
force me to scratch
until my eyes are red,
sore, blurred;


I look haunted,
and like the ghost that haunts.


Something lives
behind my eyes,
Something alive
in my eyes.
Sometimes it moves
through my pupils,
forcing me to rush
to the mirror,
catch it in its movements,
but it is gone,
only my red, tired eyes
stare back, frightened,


There is something alive
in my eyes
that is not me;


might it be my soul,
rising from the centre of me,
reminding me I am alive
and will always be,
though I know
that is a lie,
a lie,


shuddering behind my wounded eyes,
with all the broken colours
such lies hide behind.


© Edward Lee