I sit on a planet the size of my head, it and I drift throughout the cold outer space. My eyes sparkle at the sight of pink stars which come by rarely. I grab them and hold onto them for as long as I can. My time with them are short-lived because my sweaty hands from the heat of the star make me lose grip quickly. Tears fall from my eyes, they fly down and orbit my planet. They stay for years until too many crowd, then they all set aflame and travel to my planet leaving craters in their places. Damage is quick and easy, it’s the healing that takes time and effort. When I’m lucky a gentle pink meteorite will interfere with my aimless course and hit my planet, filling the craters with its beauty. There are plenty of hideous craters  left behind by my sorrow. Don’t let this blind you, though, from the beauty that my planet contains. Someday, from the craters, there will be breathtaking, life-filled rainforests of which wisdom they take photosynthesis. They will fill your mind with new sights and knowledge of a world other than your own. Don’t see someone for their planet’s flaws. See them, instead, for their planet’s beauty. Learn from their craters and awe at their rainforests. Someday they might send your way a pink star to heal your damaged earth.
END

My train of thought takes me to an ethnic enclave of pride located in my dystopian head. Outside of this head of myne is a pink butterfly trapped in a grey cocoon. I’d leave this cocoon and finish my metamorphosis if I weren’t trapped in a spider’s web, this hideous cocoon is my only protection from it’s pain inducing bite. I’m always on high alert to defend myself. I must always keep my defences high and never let my guard down or it will take advantage of my vulnerability. The word stress is an understatement, I feel as if this web is draining me of life, as if it loves the taste of my misery. I am bewildered and overwhelmed with the weight of my ever growing responsibilities. Soon enough this spider’s patience will die out and I will be the one to take advantage of its vulnerability. Until then I wait.
END

The fiction of people’s pessimistic statements towards life seed and grow rainforests in my head. Breaking my skull so that the green may spread throughout my dirt shell. Nonfiction, as in reality, blooms into pink gladiolus flowers. The reality is that people’s thoughts can either work as an anchor or as an open sail. Whether those thoughts are anchors or are open sails is completely up to the thinkers, themselves.
END

Your words sound joyful yet the they taste of melancholy. Your beauty hypnotizes me but it would be wrong of me to complain for I’m guilty of giving it permission. In fact, I requested it. A trust fall would be catastrophic, not that you wouldn’t catch me, the problem is that I know you would. I need you to comfort me and then toss me into a pit of snakes. I need you to hate me, hurt me so that I can stop thinking about how perfect you are. I don’t want to be stuck thinking about your perfection while my heart pumps blood into my pen. I’m tired of mourning over the loss of something that I never even had and will never end up having because your body is inches away but when I look into your eyes the color is miles out into the distance.
END

(Thoughts On Vanity)
I bandage my flaws but they never heal. Covered, still there. I paint the bandages pink, only temporary. I want to retreat into a shell where I can be safe and unseen. Vanity is a burden. It is a disease, an addiction and it is a distraction. Why must I be this way? Why do I care so much? Is it that I crave acceptance? I want to be loved, to be in love, can that happen for me? I await a dove to land on an alligator’s nose, thinking it’s a mossy log floating in the water, just as the alligator dies from heart failure. I await perfection. The odds, though, weigh completely out of my favor. I feel like perfection is just coincidences lined up just right until they are right where they should be. I’m not important enough for that. My goal here is to stop giving a ****. Help?
END

Rusted eyes and dynamite hearts. Tortured thoughts and shredded paper mache souls. Falling and flying, drowning and breathing, screaming and laughing. Going into a cave inhabited by our worst fears, wave your flaming torch to overpower them. Beat them down and toss them into the back of your head. We come first, your supporters in pink at the front of your head, wear us as armour. Your thoughts surface at the top where we pass our judgement to them. If you let us go then our pink love will evolve to dark pink and then as dark as the abyss your mind is lost in. You hold one side of a rope where we hold the other. We try to pull your mind from the abyss as it pulls back and overpowers us bringing us down with it. Lost and cold, we will split up and find our own way out. We find our way out and wait for you in candle light.
END

In a coma induced by your dark heart. Blind to the evils and red lights. I feel alive in my dreams where your touch awakens me when in reality your touch pushes me deeper into the abyss. A microphone wraps me in it’s love. I express myself and feel at home with you and then feel cold and empty after I’ve poured my heart out to you. Hold my heart in your morphine covered hands. You’re the killer wasp of my honeycomb soul, aggressively protect me from outsiders so that I can never see any other light. Imagining a place where love is freedom and being alone is locks and chains yet reality is holding me back from this. Deep in my head, happiness is a passing train. Depression is always there, sadness hidden in plain sight, anger breaks me into pieces and leaves me black and blue. I lie in the dark in agonizing pain throwing bottled SOS messages into a river of blood. Me, myself and I have a lot in common. Only us to understand each other as others try to decipher our thoughts.
END