I write to calm my nerves
I write to bring me back to her
The Divine Feminine
Energy
Embedded in every cell
Of my Aries body
Bringing balance
A high beam
Of pure love
And synergy
To bring the world forth
To its eternal dream

I have a self built barrier to hate
I am full of love
That arbitrates
Fairness in the highest fashion
Self love
Compassion

i'd have given up my poetry for you
blind, drawn by your voice, you lonely bird
i cornered you without even wishing to
but i swear i held the lines in my throat
though they died
i'd have given up my song for you
but you lied and boasted and
cried to me
we were children then, i was a fool
rope at the ready each moment
for i'd have ripped out my dreams for you
and my love was utterly fragmented
back there i whimpered against the staircase
watching the night drawl along
i always knew it'd never be enough for you

it's been a very long time
since I've looked at the stars
and seen stars

I am learning how to do everything again
how to live
after a decade of dying
how to get up and brush my teeth
and learn things
speak to people
how to look up at the stars
and not count the days until my death

there are days when the sweet blade against my skin
seems preferable than looking myself in the mirror
but the knives stay in the drawers now
not under the mattress

it's difficult now
but if I have done nothing in my life
at least I have learned how to live
how to see the stars
for once

Existence that remains unknown is existence without rules.
Since 'kun fiya kun' or "Be, and it is" is so basic,
the only answer to "being" that solves is b+e=be.
Still I question: "what am I, now?" as if I've never heard an answer.

My mind cannot cognize its own existence with "be" nor another verb.
Its rationality is as truth, which has no limits.
Yet, in the midst of expansion it asks "what am I?"
Answering: "fullness" is rejected when I can reject the fullness.

"Disbelief" is what I am when everything is going right but I must say "I am not there yet".
This disbelief is the wind in my sails, without it I would not have gone anywhere.
For even positive knowledge says "there is more to find", really saying "you are not you".
Thus, I am never.
Whereby "be" laughs and says "still, there is nothing".

Having been referred to on multiple occasions as being “depressed”, I am offended. Every time. Having a chronically macabre state of mind and being drawn to a melancholy atmosphere and writing does not make one depressed. Or a psychopath. It does not mean a person is on a journey to being a serial killer or committing suicide. Some people, such as myself, just happen to find comfort in things deep and meaningful. While some comedy, joy, and love is to be revered and enjoyed more sparingly the sad, twisted, and horrid truths of the world can uphold a better sense of completion, joy, and love. This does not make one depressed or mentally ill but perhaps just more...... thoughtful.