They call me the angel child;
and I suppose at some point, I once was one.
But my demons have cut off my wings a long time ago.

I have butterflies
roaming in my chest.
But these are not the
good butterflies;
these are the bad ones.
They have been kissed
by death and their wings
coated in despair have
found a nest inside of me.

The "us" in my head was just
a stillborn dream of mine.
But in another life, that dream
would live and breathe with us.

As a child, I said hello to poetry;
but I did not know that it would
become my ultimate adult therapy.

I try to say what's on my mind,
but the words are in commotion.
I keep it bottled up inside;
a walking wreck of emotions.

You only see the tip of the iceberg,
but my feelings are pacific deep.
When will my love stop being unheard,
so my insecurities can sleep.

I'm sporadic alive; roaming around,
trying to cope with my endless stress.
I hope you dare to see my ghost town,
where the fragile me are taking a rest.

I let go of my first love before it had a chance to bloom.
I watched it fall with autumn into the descending moon.

But here we are again; talking about yesterday's tune.
It's like nothing ever happened, and thus my pain resumes.

The porcelain bird flew so very high
until its neck encountered with the ground.
From the windowsill to the edge of night
it died alone; with no one else around.