She’s a girl of dreams, with heart aflame
Dreams of things yet to be explored
Her dreams are her source of inspiration and creativity
Things unknown, curiosity drives her to unveil her desires

A girl of vision, significant to others
She is a masterpiece, a work of art
Her way of life is known by the kindred spirits
And hidden to the foolish, a mystery to unravel
Affecting others through her search for deepest fantasies
Contagious and catchy spirit indeed!

“ Girl of dreams never stop exploring
“ Girls of their dreams never stop uplifting souls “

I cradle hurricanes in my ribcage
while words swirl around my head.
I try to catch the good ones-
but mostly, I wish I was dead.

I do everything too much-
the joy, the sorrow, the dread.
Yet somehow, I’m never enough-
what a curious truth to be force fed.

If I laugh, it’s always too loud;
my mouth too sharp to make anyone proud.
Crying is a dangerous game,
I could sob away a city, drown in the blame.

My rage leaves no survivors,
as if I line people up on personal pyres.
When I vent, they hear preaching-
a sermon no one wants, a fear of my leeching.

I don’t love, I dissect-
obsessively search for the trap I expect.
I can’t just leave; I burn it all down-
the bubbly, funny girl wears a permanent frown.

I do too much and my inner child feels seen,
She's acting out, we aren't this mean
I just get scared when the vibe is off, and ruining the mood makes the blow more soft.

Despite the chaos I still crave love, an equal partner, wearing fireproof gloves.

I have all this love
And nowhere to put it
It's rotting inside me
Soft,warm
Unspent.

I reach out in dreams
But wake up alone
His name buried in my throat
Like a secret
I was not allowed to say.

He didn't stay
But the love did
And now it grows wild
Inside a heart
With no one left
To give it to.

I bite.
Not with teeth.
with silence,
with sharp glances,
with walls built higher than your reach.

I’m not cruel.
I’m just tired
of being kind first
and torn apart second.

You call it attitude.
I call it armor.
Because being soft
never saved me.
It only made the fall hurt more.

So I speak less now.
Agree less.
Trust less.
I pull away before someone has the chance
to walk out first.

It’s not that I don’t want love.
I’ve learned that even “I care about you”
can come with conditions.
Even soft hands
can leave bruises
you can’t see.

I bite
because once,
I didn’t.
And it nearly broke me.

I felt safe in my depression                                                       ­                          all black with no sharp edges