Under the branches                                                         ­                                                                  Where the tall grass grows,                                                           ­                                                               Th­ere’s a people who hide                                                             ­                                                             And no one knows.                                                           ­                                                                 ­       The way they survive                                                          ­                                                                 ­     Is like none other,                                                           ­                                                                 ­            For they fear the world                                                            ­                                                                 And all its terror.                                                          ­                                                                 ­             They hear the voices                                                           ­                                                                 ­      And see the shadows,                                                         ­                                                                 ­          They live in darkness                                                         ­                                                                 ­        And shake and cower.                                                           ­                                                                 ­     They live but                                                              ­                                                                 ­                 In harsh conditions,                                                      ­                                                                 ­                 Making the craziest                                                         ­                                                                 ­               Rash decisions.                                                       ­                                                                 ­                    Everyone wants                                                            ­                                                                 ­               To put them to death,                                                           ­                                                                 ­     But I say stand up                                                               ­                                                                 ­     And fight for who’s left.                                                            ­                                                                 The problem doesn’t lie                                                              ­                                                                I­n the heart of the ******,                                                          ­                                                              But­ in the mind                                                             ­                                                                 ­           Their thoughts are filled with typos.                                                           ­                                                 They twitch and hide                                                             ­                                                                 ­   And want to die,                                                             ­                                                                 ­         But nobody sees                                                             ­                                                                 ­           The demons inside.                                                          ­                                                                 ­      The voices that haunt them                                                             ­                                                         The nightmares that stick,                                                           ­                                                                 ­The noises torture them                                                             ­                                                               Ju­mping off the highest peak.                                                            ­                                                         Terror and delusion                                                         ­                                                                 ­        The river that roars,                                                           ­                                                                 ­        The horrible psychosis                                                        ­                                                                 ­      The mania implores.                                                        ­                                                                 ­        These people know nothing                                                          ­                                                              But­ how to live,                                                            ­                                                                 ­         With the horrible fate                                                             ­                                                                 ­   That they’ll never be saved.

Here.
Have this.
It's a key.
But not just any key.
Maybe it's a little rusty, a little old, a little worn.
But it's yours.
And maybe sometimes if you hold it, it jabs into your hand,
But it's yours.
And maybe one day you'll lose that little key,
and you won't know where it went.
But don't worry.
This key is yours.
This key will always be yours.
Because this key, this small, old, rusty key,
is the key to my heart.

nothing's wrong with this world
something wrong with humans

They say that it could all be a dream. Just breathe.
They say my disconnect to the normal scene took away my normalcy.
I've fallen into the cracks between a desire to leave and a calling to lead. Breathe.
Don't let them see.
They don't see behind the same mirror as me. Breathe. Anxiety fogging up the mirror slightly; begging it to fight me, like I don't fight it nightly, like my fingers don't grip tightly around this pen so much that it's frightening.
My mind is an aggressive typewriter that walks along a tight wire - falling in love with the nights I get to admire the view of my feet dangling over the fire. Breathe.
You are safe up here.
You could disappear and still be near to all that will forever appear to be as real as what goes on in front of your mirror.

I hope you never fear her.
Breathe.

And it seems that lately,
they run and hide when inevitably,
their actions no longer can be seen through the words they spoke, so openly.
And yet, they notice me,
but not the things that I see, or see through.
I see you.
But when the mirror is perfectly placed, towards their face,
they are off and away, again today,
to run away from the day that could teach them to stay.
And so I say, we will never learn the lessons we do not search for.
Or even more, we will keep running to closed doors
that were built to remind you that you ignored they keys that jingle so dormant
on your soul's cold floor.
It's in the fire of my core that I learned to be as fluid as the ocean shore.
Being as vast as that,
my mind becomes confused when they run from all that they lack.
Moving fast just to stay in place,
now I know why they can't look me in my face. It's a disgrace, the way that they blame the day. Everything they say,
while looking the other way,
reaching for the things they only would push away when day breaks.
And it seems like lately,
they are wasting their breath, spoken so shaky. this is why they do not shake me,
I am so unmoved by anything that does not move with me, genuinely.
A stale tone never would break me,
though my voice travels, ever so faintly.

I have questions; Questions regarding the lessons, disarming me. Like why things that would be alarming to the majority, no longer surprise me..Or why they look at me crooked when I've straightened parallel to the ones aligning. Or why when I'm crying, the ones I thought would be beside me are prying away, like they waited for the perfect day to say goodbye. Or why, despite it all, I've yet to feel so alive, as I do now. Because in order to survive we must not crouch down, or bow down to the things that would never amount to the amount of love we wish to give out. Avoiding handouts as if my hands were tied my back. because to receive for free what I can't live without would have me living only with what I lack day in and day out. A soul priceless and timeless, and I'll bet money that they'll always be able to write this, even if I left this world in the name of righteousness. I have answers, though the questions hold much more. Like why the things that I happen to adore, have me hugging the floor. Is it a passion to implore into more? Or a clashing that I ignore until it hurts like a sore that I thought I never asked for? But still I remain, as fluid as the ocean shore that only asks me to soar and welcomes me into its core. I'm learning to dive. Back stroking waves that sweep me out of the bad dreams to real life, where I get to choose what keeps me alive and what I thank God for at night. As long as I can see the moon shining bright, I know within my heart it will all be alright. Goodnight.

Z
　　E
　　　 R
　　　　 O
　　　　　o
　　　　　 o
　　　　　o
　　　　 。
　　　 。
　　　.
　　　.
　　　 .
　　　　.

she was just a usual college girl at a glance,
look closer and you will see how her eyes dead
her lips dry with wounds all over and they are still red

one day she took a writing class because
she had nowhere to go

there was this one time the white-haired guy
with fatherly smile who called himself a professor,
raised one of the students' work and complimented
the suicide ending of the main character

he read it and she thought how it was true,

but then everyone started writing about
depression and self-loathing and
cutting yourself
biting your lips
clawing your cheeks
and ended with someone's hanging or choking in pills

she asked one of them who had written so,

'have you ever stood over a bridge
and your legs just felt like they were
going to betray you and every ounce of faith
you ever had in everything you thought you believed in?'

when she saw the strange look pointed at her,


she knew she was talking to a wrong person.