passions were my strong point. every breath lined with a deeper meaning that makes you embrace any emotion including sadness is a blessing.
i can sit and stare at the clouds endlessly. distance myself from human infestation, so i can spend some time alone marvelling the cosmic manifestation.
i read books, conjure up worlds and press pages with fragile paper wings that let me fly in the summer air making me feel as light as a butterfly.
i stay up at nights and end up painting faces of unrecognisable angels and demons that live inside my head. i'm constantly torn between prose and poetry. one lets me live, and the other helps me to get lost.
i am a girl living on wishbones and rusted blood. a girl covered in an ever-glowing soil. a girl toiled with ashes. but i am reborn every time a part of me is scathed. i reappear till i'm completed.
till i'm finite because i was held by strong points:
passions.

All strung
out
       on
sadness,
empty shells
of needles
      that injected
the next defense
      to keep me going
splayed upon
the coldness
            of metal
somewhere in a place
lower than
the floorboards
of the nether regions
of a private hell,
where no one sees
      the truth behind
the doors of
           beaten swords
of silken pictures
in frothy shades
of effervescent green
a smiling happy family
in which the
sounds of drowning
can only be
             vaguely heard
a faded gurgle
       in an ocean of sighs

Somewhere, there,
the pain in my veins
spreads like
a self-administered
                       drug
only it's not
my prescription, at all
just a parody
from the very
    sick doctor
who shares
          this house,
meant to
be a home
one who thinks
he knows it all
but knows nothing

In this dreamlike weaving
of staring blankly
into alternative spaces
when all is so heavy
that even breathing is a task
I suddenly remember
   who the **** I am
and push my gaze through
the ceiling cracks
to look up at
         the stars,
receiving their
            shadows
           of light
      like a blessing
   upon my
   nettle-stung
    tongue
and
       rise

I am the cold silver light in the darkness.
The rattling madness polluting sanity.
I am both, I am everything.
But mainly I am burdened with truth.

That, is why I am so Afraid of living
Why I am so afraid of Not living

Why I am not afraid to die.

I am the lead tainted paint in a bottle, stirring, absorbing the artist's pain.
In madness I am used to depict a reality ideal.
With every brush stroke, every color, I am killing him, he is using me to **** him,
as he paints murals for the masses to alleviate their suffering.
He suffers from truth.

He is not afraid to die.

I am a chameleon blending in with the rest of you,
Fools, drunk off of false hope and fairy tales
I am the paint, and the painting
I am the artist,

And I am not afraid to die.

I see her.
Faceless, beautiful, warm.
On this dark winters day,
As the wind screeches and the
Leaves run,
She is there.
Singing-
My ears drawn to her.
Such a comfort that I can
See her ever so rapidly.
Though, is it her or my surroundings
that are the enemy?
I approach her,
The notes exhaled from her
breath that cannot even be
breathed still
hypnotise my ears.
She feels neither warm nor cold-
Yet this still sends shivers down
the hairs under my baggy shirt.
And the notes, oh the notes again
cause me to feel.
I can taste her-
As though she is the overload of
metallic blood being pumped around me.

All sight in diamonds
as I sit at the bay
window in which I see-
my eyes, they cannot help
but see in segments.
Maybe it was my childhood that was broken.
Though, this bitter breeze bites at me,
I am whole in this place.
Overcrowded by ceilings that were too low,
Even for my little legs that held me.
A book-Holes.
A book engraved in my mind,
Though maybe it’s the holes
that were made in my soul
As a child.
But there is green,
Everywhere there is green.
Though, Nature picks me like a flower
‘She loves me, she loves me not’-
Tormenting me as the rain makes me grow.