Whether they are spilling blood
Into the bathroom sink,
Or showing their cold- coloured flesh
Beneath your worn skin,
They will always be there.
And always have those feelings
Whether he's near or far.
Even if you chose the fate.

Even if he wasn't there
When it did occur,
They both flamed
With anger,
Hate,
And emptiness.

And that's what filled my veins,
When they stung relentlessly
In the showers that lasted lifetimes
And glowed in the heartbreak.

They never gave in,
Even when I did.

It does not matter
Where you are,
Who you are,
What time it is.
There will always be something
That will completely
Obliterate your breath,
Refrain you from speech.

Engross your eyes
On the view.

When we're living
We might already be dead.

When we're dying
We finally feel the pain
Of being alive.

So what does it mean?
Life.
Is it what you do with it?
Or some secret code
That no one knows about,
But could be lingering right in front of us?

Do we have to know ourselves,
Find ourselves,
Or be totally oblivious
To finally know
The meaning of life?

No body shall see them
Until you let them in,
If you let them in.

No body shall see
These delicate little marks
That are so filled with anger.

The cracks begin to show
In such an unwilling way,
That they submerge you.
Immerse you.

Until you cannot see the other side.
And all of the beautiful flowers
That once bloomed
In your scintillating mind,
Slowly faded,
And fell to a significant death.

That is when the cracks begin to show,
Because no longer is there control.

Spontaneously enjoying culture
Not of yours.
But discovering new possibilities,
Encapsulating fragments of memories
In that disposable camera
That only works if you press really fast.

She was so young,
So vulnerable.
A beautiful soul
Trapped in a naïve shell,
Slowly being hollowed
By the aggressive core that she lived in.

She didn't deserve this.

She shouldn't have been in the wrong place
At the very wrong time.
Maybe it was fate.
Maybe she did deserve it.

She was self obsessed.

Your heart is your work of art,
Your skin a canvas,
Your whole presence a figure
For creativity.

Some take it for granted,
Some can't help but admire
It's natural beauty.
So much that they cover it up.

It is yours.
Free for your content,
But people use this canvas
In very different ways.

Maybe to be original,
Maybe to attempt freedom,
Maybe to escape.

We are all masterpieces that aren't quite complete.