You planted fear in the pit of my stomach and nurtured the seed,
now my varicose veins are green.
Watch, as I uproot this hideous ****,
that you so roughly dug inside of me.

Sometimes, mothers give birth to their past in the shape of a child. A child born to another's world is born a poet.

I can't write poetry. I just bleed poetically. Spilling dark thoughts and emotions accidentally. I can't write poetry I'm a terrible closet, I open and tumble authentically. Hoping someone out there can learn to read me.

After all you've been through why do you still look for love and men? Because you have no idea how powerful it is to enjoy something you've been taught to fear.

I hate boxes, straight edged rules and no exceptions, I love blurred visiuals the almosts and undicipherables. I crave bruises, pompous poppy signatures, signs of mischief and adventures. Do not box me or bruise me, let me be free and blurry, full of adrenaline and ugly laughter.

She had a supernatural ability to read one's mind,
and she left no page unturned,
every face she ever saw she would read and then rehearse.
She could pick at your insecurities before she knew your name, emphasise your interests make you feel you were the same.
Like a mirror, she would reveal,
and adapt to how you feel.
But mirrors are mere objects that reflect and absorb,
She never got to see herself so she lived a life ignored.

There was something about him that meant everything he said motivated me to be better, When others uttered the same it made me cry. It's as if he was saying get well soon instead of its fine you're ill.