Done with exams
Done with tests
Degree accorded
Headwear in the air
But why do I struggle to be happy
I just did it daddy

Gown all day
Hood in the wrong position
Party rest of the day
Sunday stuffed with meat
Aunties are glad for me
I just did it mummy

Lecturers glad am finally gone
Chancellor with his vice
Certificate colorful
Time to commit a felony
But why do I struggle to be happy
For me and my achievement

haunt me my heart
of october

forged remains of the
days spent in disguise

breathing, always breathing
settled in ruins

caught in the arms of
the morning thought

swirling in strokes of
the painted nights

how far has sun
come to rule?

for mine is the
house of summer

where she haunts
me still

old photographs melt
into the moonlight

to never stay in
dusk

for mine is the colour
of her design

drawn on the edge
of my despair

castle of decay melting
into the melancholy

a glance in memory
but unfamiliar

silent tears prying
into the wilderness

how far has sun
come to rule

how long has it been?

Hey Neptune
Why you so blue
Don't go outside
You might get a flu

Hey Neptune
You so cold
Not your fault that love don't come to you
Don't cry you changing your hue

Come closer Neptune
No need to get lonely
Mama's smiling at you
Believe me, she's proud of you

You are beautiful Neptune
Don't cry, the atmosphere's pretty coz of you
Take my guitar, play those tunes
For love has left you

Don't be sad
I'm here for you
I know it feels safer away from you
But let me be with you either way

I will write until there is nothing left of me until everything is poured out and given. Until it’s over: these hands &   their warmth.
Until someone else comes to let us know what their world has been too
Until my writing is of no need in a world of peace
in a world of beauty
in a world of compassion
Until we have conquered no one’s land except that of our own mind and laid eyes on the cruelty and ailments just as much as on the kindness and cures inside us

Make the decision to see all and pick to nurture only what will bring peace on earth.

Poetry is the weeping eye
it is the weeping shoulder
the weeping eye of the shoulder
it is the weeping hand
the weeping eye of the hand
it is the weeping soul
the weeping eye of the heel.
Oh, you friends,
poetry is not a tear
it is the weeping itself
the weeping of an uninvented eye
the tear of the eye
of the one who must be beautiful
of the one who must be happy.

by Nichita Stanescu, translated by Thomas Carlson and Vasile Poenaru

I am a introverted extrovert. I got lost in between being overly social and drained from emotional damages society suffers from.

AMANDA SHELTON