It's like walking on clouds, he said.
It takes all your insecurities and spins them into whipped cream.
whether whipped into sugar or whipped into submission, we will never know.
but that blanket isolation-where will I go when it's swallowed?
it's necessary for people like me.
We alight on hydrangea petals like a sprinkling of ash
and suddenly disappear into shattered glass.
They say feelings such as mine will wreck minds,
put a wrench in the construction that is happening between two people.
One figment ventures to peep about my own development plans, but I bite my tongue and swallow the thought.
Does the whipped topping permeating my words pass your lips still disguised?
Or can you divine why it's there to begin with?
I hope you know, he pleads. *I hope you know you're my biggest insecurity.

I know i said I wouldn't.
but i did.
am i sorry?

waterfalls crash onto youngsters below, but somehow have the audacity to keep flowing. somehow the trickle of feelings i'm letting loose isn't exactly comparable.

how, then? is there a a way to define the traitorous leakage defining my being at this moment, in others?

no. perhaps not.

so maybe it would be better
to just let this waterfall
crash

everyone says to have virtues
but how can i
when everyone's are different

i suppose i'll just bang my head on the keys
and become a composer instead

Sometimes I wonder if I'm the only one that can see my black, oil slicked feathers.
They are the reason I don't like getting wet, the reason I fit better in the shadows than in the direct sunlight.
I'm not colorful on the outside, though the glossy yet demure rainbow sheen of my midnight mane may say otherwise.
They say it's what's on the inside that counts; if you cut me open, I'd bleed opal.
Opal, shimmering liquid pearl, luminescent moonshine filling every crevice of my heart, every crack and corner that are not filled with emotions that threaten to overturn the barriers preventing floods over and over and yet over again.
I'd forgotten- funny isn't it?- how easily words can flow and glow from my mouth if I would only open it. But as quickly as I do, the contents that spill out are black as tar, black as my coverings, my feathers, my thoughts.
What else is there to say but that I wish the black and the rainbow would coexists?
Oil slicks and opals are both beautiful.
You can see the rainbow in each, but sometimes you have to take the time to look closer.

Waiting on the messy bedroom by the window,
Along strong mellow walls, begging to be heard.
Waiting for the moment you will look at yourself,
Let go of all the hurting built up inside corrupting lungs.
Feel the untouchable thoughts unstringing you from numbness,
Running fingers on an almost empty body, resurrecting to life.

Another day older, another day bolder.
But they never mentioned
it'd be this much colder.

everything's breaking
and i'm running
to the only place
i've ever known
to the only place
i've ever called home

i'm running to you-