Have you seen my dream?Have you seen my dream?It's not that bigBut it is mine.Have you heard my opinion?It's worth two centsIt's worth every dime.Have you touched my heart?It is very fragileBut I am willing to share.Have you seen my dream?It may not be muchBut at least I dare.
Singing Colours.Singing a blue songin nuances of red.Yellow sneaking inand there's a hint of purple.A melody in greenlistening to the orange.Azure notes swirlingand there are sparks of white.Playing a magenta concertdancing to the bordeaux.Turquoise kisses fadeand there are shadows of black.Colours fading slowly awaythe colours are drained.Leaving only shades of greyleaving only blindness.
Unspoken WordsUNSPOKENWORDSMay LingerINYOURMEMORYFar LongerTHANTHOSEThat HaveBEENVOICED
Spoken unspokenCan you hear the echo?It sounds so hollow.Words unspoken hanging in the air.I look at the blank paper and I seethe words that should(could)fill in the blank spaces.When I write them down they take wingand fly awayleaving the echo behind uponthe empty pages.If they land within your mindtake root and growthen promise to send their offspring into the airso they may fill out the void left by theunspoken.
Merchant of Death.There's a war.There's always a war.If there is none, we create it.Who I am doesn't matter.How I look doesn't matter.I am never the same. I provide what they want. I sell them guns on the streets. I sell them grenades across the dinner table. I send them tanks and bombs with the mail. I take their money. I reap what they sow.Selling them death.Supply and demand.Demand is always high.The Grim Reaper travels in my shadow.My harvest is always bountiful.I am a Merchant of Death.
The PoetFor the work of a Poet to be truly appreciatedhe must write it with his own blood and tears for inkhis soul the sharpened quill to nail the wordslike so many specimen of unwilling insects upon the paper.And once he has bled outbecoming the cause of his own demisethe reader is left behind to digest his soulso plainly trapped within a cage of wordshis requiem written as a love song to his Muse.
That which touches man.WhoAmIToClaimToKnowWhatTouchesTheHeartOfMan?This Complex Being O fFlesh A n dThoughtIShall Never Understand.
DollDOLL WrappedIn ArmsOf A S H E S.
No more gloryDesecrated hallwaysFilled with debris of timeTorn portraits of unknown peopleCrushed beneath centuries of dustWhispers of secrets long forgottenStill clinging to the shredded tapestriesThe wind cries sadly through shattered windowsSic transit gloria mundi.
oh daughter—"the stars never seem to come out for me."—"oh daughter, the universe- it sleeps in gentle breaths, beautifully.nothing to save these broken stars as the sun snores between the sea."
The Fairytale BookThe home of the Willow WispsIs not a faraway landYou do not cross wide oceansOr tread hot valleys of sandFrom the hollows of an oak treeAwakens Queen of the FaeSmall transparent wings shimmerIn the sunlight of the dayOn the voyage of sailorsSilent waters bubble to lifeAnd bursts forth a SirenMaiden of beauty and strifeSerene slumbering DragonNestled in a cave of richesWith gold, silver, and jewelsHe has fulfilled all his wishesThe beautiful lovelorn PrincessLocked away in her high towerHe is the noble, radiant sunshineCome to rescue his sweet sunflowerMagical Forests, Castles in the Sky,Adventures, Wonderlands, and DreamscapeNever ending fantasy and fictionWillow Wisp, won’t you be my escape?The Willow Wisps sigh softlyIt’s time for the magic to go home—Home within the pages of a fairytale bookAs you finish reading the poem
NarcissusWhat ifwhat Narcissussaw in that pondwasnt himself.What if it was someoneso jaw dropingly beautifulhe couldnt look away,but this person wasdefiantly no himself.Just no one elsecould see it.What ifthe goddess cursedhim to fall in love withsomeone worlds awaythat he could never touch?
HurtWhy does it hurt to love so much?To look you in the eyes?To see the love you feel for her,While I sit here and try.People say it's beautiful,And tell me to have hope.But how can I have hope to love,If there is no one I can trust?My fragile heart,Can't take it no more.It's broken in a million pieces,And there is no hope.So tell me...What do people see in love,If it hurts them so much?
146 poundsmy mother tells me that i should be ashamedfor dipping my baby carrots in salad dressing,that my food doesn't need the salt i sprinkle on it.my afternoon tea doesn't need any sugar, skipthe lemonade and drink the water instead. do you really need that? her sharp tone echoes like military orders in the face of combat.she tells me that at my age, her jean size was half of mineand i resist the urge to tell her that maybe that means shehad half the character i do.shopping with her, she butts heads with a body-image complex,telling me to quit fooling myself and pick the next size up.i shock her time and time again when i cram my corners intoevery article of clothing i selected on my own. how will you ever get married? & i wish i could tell her how boys have seen me nakedin the emotional sense of the word, how they have foundtruth and honor ready to burst from my so-called "fat rolls."she will never know that i am a garden with an unlocked gateand that each o
Demon in the HallwayA hallway lit by eternal flame,Unsure of whether I'm still sane,It may be that I am dreaming,Or I'm being deceived by a demon.The flames flicker and shift,As my mind begins to drift,O the screams! How they beckon me!Oh hellish madness, let me be!Down the hallway I peer,As if I was a blind seer,Through the darkness, a face,Grotesque as that of fallen grace.A demon stands before ne,But I can't comprehend how this can be,Is it a figment of my imagination?It must be some exasperation!My feet refuse to listen,Ever forwarding my position,Towards the monstrosity,I begin to fear the worst.It's claws are like nails,Of silver, glistening from the light,Yet, it's body is shrouded by shadow,More and more, this feels like a barrow.The devilish creature begins to smile,Evilly, and all the while,I continue to cringe and shake,Hoping to be shook awake.It laughs like a maniac,"This is no dream, insomniac,For your soul is mine to claim,To take back to my domain."Again, it
Last ChanceI love you,More than you know.But your love for me,Is only a show.I’ll never understand,What keeps me coming back.Though you’re good with words,You’re completely void of tact.It must mean something,That I still want you.No matter what happens,No matter what you do.I think about you constantly,I dream of you at night.I’m ashamed of the images,My mind conjures even in the light.I’ve never said the words,But you should know how I feel.Do I actually need to say it,For you to know it’s real?Do you love me?As I do you?Are we both just too stubborn,To say what is true?I guess it’s time,After all of these years.To get on with it,And conquer my fears.I’m done being your ‘friend’,The girl that you use.If I voice my feelings,Maybe I won’t lose.So here goes nothing,My chance at last.It’s time for me to say it,Or put you in the past.It’s harder than I thought,But maybe you feel it, too
Heart full of ScarsI don't want flowers, not even a roseI don't want chocolates or fancy clothesAll I want is a hug at the end of a long dayA caring hand to wipe the tears awayI don't care where we go I don't care what we doAll that I want is to spend time with youIts not about strength, its about heartIts about being honest right from the startAll I want is someone to hold my handWhen times are tough and just say they understandI know I'm not perfect, I don't pretend to beI am just me, all that you seeI don't want the moon, or even the starsAll I ask is you love me, with my heart full or scars
A Self-created Fantasy.I am the master of my destinyNo one shall carve my way but I.I am the leader of my dreamsI am responsible if I live or die.I am the creator of my madness,the father of my desperation.The maker of my fearsthe fuel to self-made validation.I reap my own rewardsfor the work I have completedthe one broken and forlornwhen my riches were depleted.I am the prophet of my beliefschoosing which way to followThe compass of my moralsI'm to blame if I'm hollow.I am the keeper of my pridefor the good deeds I claim to give.The martyr at my own crossfor the way I chose to live.I am the maker of my destiny,no one shall carve my way but meI have control of my actionsfor I chose to be kept free.
the discoverythis endless morning made myeyes ache and i found thatlying in bed doesn't really solvemuch at all.and endless words tore up my mind[the worst kind of words, too - uglywrapped up in beautythe kind that used to find their way out ofyour twisted lips]and by the time i forced themaway, my brain was in shredsand an endless thumping explodedbehind my eyesand through my veinsrattling my bones, andchattering my teethand i couldn't make it stopno matter how muchmuddy tea i drank from clinking china.but today i finally looked outthe window, andthe sun was beautiful andthe wind was gusting like it hadsomewhere better to beand the clouds were drifting slowly bylike in a miyazaki movie i saw once.so maybe i'll go outside, becausethis endless morning made myeyes acheand, darling, i found that lying in beddoesn't really solve much at all.
coward.she will never knowhow much you love her untilyou open your mouth.
Good enoughYou’ll never be good enough to beat that person in video games.Nor that online player who claims they're the best.You’ll never be good enough to earn that pay raise at work.Nor become employee of the month.You’ll never be good enough to be the strongest and smartest in class.Nor get the best grades.You’ll never be good enough to be a model.Nor have the body you've always wanted.You’ll never be good enough to walk away from that fight.Nor be able to fight back.You’ll never be good enough to hold back your emotions.Nor always be the best friend.You’ll never be good enough to always do the right thing.Nor make the right choices.You’ll never be good enough to make that person love you.Nor always be loved.You’ll never be good enough to make it somewhere.Nor ever be noticed.But you can damn well try.
He Told Me He Was Sorry [trigger warning]June 26th—it’s hard for me to remember the last time it didn’t hurt to breathe.I think my ribs are bruised. Broken, maybe. Maybe it’s just the weight of my tired heart resting upon worn-out lungs. Either way, I’ve given up on trying to fix myself. It’s going to be torn apart again, anyway. Besides, doctors and nurses ask too many questions for me to answer. They can feel the Braille etched into my bones, but the words there are far too complicated for them to interpret. I don’t need them telling me how to live my life.But I can’t remember the last time I wasn’t hurting—when I wasn’t dotted with purple and blue.…My boyfriend isn’t a bad person.He’s just got a temper, that’s all.Brandon works in a printing company—it’s a stressful job. After work, he comes home, head-aching, with ink-stained fingers and smelling of Polaroid film. So once and a while, he goes out for a drink af
The Sound of TypingHe was an artist, once.Once.
love is coming home--i don't write about God.i don't write about God because it's writing about love, it's writing about faith, it's writing about trust and hope and belief and pain, the kind of gut-wrenching betrayal you feel when you've given up and you're waiting for someone to save you, only nobody ever does.and who else are you going to blame?it's easy to write about a God you don't believe in. it's easy to pour out all your hate and anger and hurt and deepest, darkest broken fears and fling them from your fingertips and scream, this is not God! it's easy to believe in nothing.it's not easy to believe.believing is opening yourself to the pain. it's letting go and falling back with your eyes closed, your heart in your throat because you can't see whether there's anyone waiting to catch you. and what if you hit the ground? what if there are no hands waiting to embrace you? what if there's nobody waiting at the beginning, when you finally turn around ready to try again; what if there's
ForgivenSo she returned, with happy tears.
for she is a sinnerAngels eat her alive,the way she deserves:molting downy feathersin a hermetic esophagus—like her lungs,pooled with wordsuntouchedin stillness.She is choked by halos,and expecting expansionsspanning clouds and Nilesof rosemary tears;( yet no ocean cried,and no tsunami felt,will rid the torture justifiedin each holy touch uponsoiled cheeks: wet Liar’s runoff.It falls so easily down her throat,to drown more words. )and she almost warns themto stay away: She is filth.but they lovingly caressand they carefully sinktheir glittering pearls into hercalling husk…just the way she deserves.
HomesickWhen your home isa notebook full of scrawledand hopeless ideas penned at3 a.m.,and your heart becomesheavy with every pageunspent (heavier with everypage wasted);when your closest friendsare the voices in your headwhose stories you can reciteby heart,and the blood that you bleed isthe same ink trail youleft to find your way back inthe dark...When all you have is your soul, where do you go when you'reHopelessOffensiveMelancholyEstrangedSentimentalItinerantCumbersomeKiddish
The Puppeteer.It is not the puppet I fearohnoIt is the puppeteer.For the puppet may prancedanceengage in romancebut his strings are pulledonebyoneuntil the puppeteer's dance is done.