somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

You see I was never sure
Not sure if what I give would be enough
If what I have is too much
Not sure because  if I can't accept myself
How can I accept someone else
When all I see in myself are flaws
How will I despise the flaws of others
How I so needingly try to find something to complete my hollow center
When that something is right infront of me
But the illusions he portrays to me
Are not the ones I want to see
How it be so unfair on him that I can't make up my mind
Make a decision
Or choose him.
Whether it be me or him
It's me that doesn't know what I want
As a wilted petal amongst the leaves so unsuringly unravels itself
to move further away
from the leaves that give it oxygen
Just so it can gain space
While losing strength from what it had before space was an option

Pertrusions thrusted upon truths disembark on a journey that ceases to empower the over abnormalities of the norm
The fever created from a sweat of sin cause the truths to lie deep deep within
The boundaries of alignments shattered by glass windows from ignorant reflections of unknowing people
cast among those innocent and naive
But despite these conclusions one may think they know,  the oldest of percussions is the instrument of irrelevance that no one ever did know

Feeling so empty
What can take it away
It's the overthinking
That kills me,
That ends us.
Maybe, when we think so much
We realise that the love we have is too much to fathom.
So we just think, we just think too much
hoping that the thoughts we have will mend into memories that never end.
About the endless possibilities
And the countless consequences
That interlock and create a symphony of cacophony in our minds.
Our minds that don't stop thinking.
Our minds that end us after flights of stairs travelled to skyscrapers just to reach what we had.
What others envied
What I lost
What he wanted.

There's always a silver lining
But it might be hidden
Because no happy place
Is ever forbidden.

There's so much anger
Boiling beneath my skin
It's heating me up
I'm like a dirt bin

Emptied to be full again
You leave me in pain
From overflowing me
What do you gain?

Empty words thrown into me
They think I feel nothing
How can I be happy?
Let out the trash
Maybe then I'll feel free

Just a dirt bin
Nobody cares about
You don't realize the words you put in
Because you'll just throw them out