trapped in body i don’t own
mourning what i could’ve been
by each day i feel more and more alone
this world has never seen anything like me
i see the world a little differently
searching my pockets for a dime
it has became a routine
i just wanna live peacefully
but that’s hard when you’re not sitting in a limousine
but instead you’re sitting in a body thats not your own.
i tried to fix myself
but now i’m all torn
my skin is harsh, brittle
but still i might be getting there
little by little
something’s telling me to lean towards substances
if its broken it has to be destroyed,
its me who’s broken
even though i’ve sewn my cut up skin
the scars just won’t disappear

My eyes, throbbing with agony,
bore through the window,  
desperately seeking the freedom of sky.  

To my surprise the crabapple tree  
possessed joyous magenta flowers,  
providing an unexpected  
jubilant assault of my mind.  

Lush leafy erratic branches,  
a turmoil of spring beauty  
stood in striking empathy of my silent cries.  

The afternoon sun pales the majesty of magenta.
As only love can pale agony.  
Memories live forever, is a haunting horrible lie.  
Unlike me, those magenta flowers don't need a why....

My love for her will never die.  
The majesty of those magenta flowers,  
if only for a moment, seizes and saves me deep inside.

Fear has unraveled its roots,
in the dank soil of my soul.
This shadowed unknown agony,
lurks the dark country of my heart.
In places I would never dare go.  
A starless womb,  
from which black embryos of horror,
will be born.  

I launch prayers to the angels,  
but hell's laughter is wicked and loud.  

Dread.
Worse than being dead.

Adrift in shadows, hollowed by the night,
Yet gratitude still flickers, frail but bright—
A thirst for dawn, though weighed by whispered sorrow,
We clutch the fraying thread of tomorrow.

The ache of absence hums, a silent hymn,
Melancholy’s wine pools to the brim.
But in these ruins, treasures softly gleam:
A map of scars where longing dared to dream.

Our story trembles, ink on splintered wood,
Yet pulses warm where hopelessness once stood.
The thread, though thin, spills gold through vacant air—
A silken ladder climbing despair.

We’ll stitch the rift where darkness bleeds to blue,
And weave the tale our hunger dares renew—
For even fractured light still claims the skies,
And dawn persists in tired, stubborn eyes.

I never understood the sentence
"I have my heart in my mouth."
Not until I tasted it,
not until I spit it,
not until the words got stuck in my throat
because I felt a weight on my mouth that didn’t let me breathe.

I didn’t understand the sentence
until I felt my chest empty
and its beating on my neck.
Until I cried because I couldn’t even talk.

I didn't understand what
"Having your heart in your mouth"
meant
until I found it there
and I had no one to turn to.

My soul has collapsed.
My heart and mind have no care.
Times of pain feel like small eternities,
stifling the air.
My soul, laying at the rock bottom,
entangled, strangled by the minutes, hours and days
that lapse.

My heart numbly persists to pump blood
rich with pain.
My mind teeters closer to the cliffs edge
of being sane.
I dream the sky opens with a slashing rain.

At my souls disaster scene,
people whisper of the minutia and mundane.
Fellow humans promise to help,
as they pray with might you never ask,
that you never step out of your lane.
Few in life take a stand,
step outside of their box of plans.

Born for the deep, it's easier to seek the shallow.
Lack of wonder for what's beneath.
They just  step over the carcass's of souls
scattered amongst despairs ever growing heap.