The words will come to me eventually.
I’ll hear them, see them, taste them,
As for now this pit in my stomach has rendered me completely and utterly senseless, devoid of feeling, emotion.
Devoid of words.
I grasp at straws and empty threats
Desperate to find something within myself.
Someone within myself.
I dream the most vivid dreams but
As soon as daylight crosses my face
And pries  my eyes open
It becomes void of colour
Of clarity.
Devoid of hope.
And I sit here in wait of something
Someone within myself
For as I am
I am a shell of a human being
Waiting for something to fill me with life
To give me purpose.
And I know the words will come eventually.
They always do.
I’ll be able to see them, hear them, touch them.
But they’ll be different.

I wonder if the color green releases calm and renewal energies because it is the earth's carpet, magnetizing us down to earth.

I wonder if the color red wraps around passion and chaos because the blood in our veins rush evermore when we see something we love, and it rushes to our brain when our world turmoils.

I wonder if the color blue spreads hope for the sky as a crutch for those who have nowhere else to look but up to their god or to the formation of clouds that one cannot make sense of their cotton candy essence.

I wonder what color we are. What color does the earth reflect on us? Are we chameleons, morphing into different shades by the hour or are we permanent markers, bleeding deep? Maybe we are gray and receive color by what we surround ourselves with. That's how science works, right? A reflection of light in our retinas.

I am purple. There is a cloud of mystery and romanticism that shields me like a cloak, but my emotions run like rich velvet. Maybe one day I'll find a yellow who bursts rays of warmth. I think I would like to be with a yellow one day, the golden hour of colors.

an old car with rusty brakes,
models, the Eiffel Tower, a zeppelin
combs, a toothbrush, muddy sandals,
posters of sunsets and other better worlds,
a souvenir mug from Venice, an unmade bed,
handwritten notes, letters unanswered,
a ghost that wamnders through my veins

and the present of your life

“I want to be a good man”
He tells you with eyes like a summer storm
All roaring thunder and howling wind
“Help me be a good man”
And so you help him

You lead him to the well
You show him how to drink
And you think this is love
You think this is how it grows

“I want to be a good man”
He tells you with eyes like a summer storm
All shadowed intent and a flash of warning
“Help me be a good man”
But you don’t want to help him anymore

You lead him to the well
Try to leave as he forces you to stay
Watch as the blood washes from his hands
And you think this is love
This is how it wilts

“I want to be a good man”
He looks at you and his eyes are red
You’ve long since adjusted to their madness
“Help me be a good man”
But you won’t help him anymore

You lead him to the well
Push him in when his back is turned
Watch him drown as he reaches upwards  
And you think this is love
This is how it returns to you

The stars are burning
Always burning

I sigh
Paradise on my lips
Heaven in your eyes

I dream of moonlight
And call it love

to the monster inside my head
i forgive you for those things you said
i was the one who hurt me most
i was the one who hurt me first

to the monster inside my head
why can't you be my friend instead
you've been with me since i was young
you'll be with me after i'm gone

to the monster inside my head
today's the day i'll find you dead
i'll lay some flowers upon your grave
and when you're silent i'll know i'm safe

to the monster inside my head
i've chosen to be happy instead
i'll love myself and i'll live well
i'll say goodbye and leave this hell

to the monster inside my head
may you find some peace instead

She didn't know how or why,
but lately there was a fire she couldn't quell
burning in depths of her mind.

It started as an ember , small and fragile -
a single breath, and the light goes out.

Somewhere along the way it has become much larger.
The blood in her veins boiling, the warmth in her eyes
no longer kindling.

She supposes all humans have a breaking point -
an edge, an abyss - one step too far and you'll fall into core of the earth.

Sometimes when the fury tries to swallow her whole, she stomps out the light.
Those times, her body turns to ash and her mind is a soot covered tomb - a graveyard of skeletal memories and charred dreams.

But sometimes, when she welcomes the burn, her body becomes a temple and the fire becomes a great beast -
a guardian that lashes at those who cause her harm and howls in worship at the inferno in her veins.

At night in the mirror, the beast will stare out at her with red eyes and a violent smile.

More and more often, she finds her self smiling back

we were not fire and ash,

passion so raw we swallowed 
the sun.
we were not ruin and madness,

tear stained faces twisted 
into angry masks.
we were like summer rain -

peaceful and calm;

long days staying in bed 
just to trace constellations in your eyes
and I may not have watched the world burn to have you,

but that doesn’t mean I love you any less.