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Young depression is,—
not feeling like I can move out of bed,
but I’ve got constant moving thoughts in my head.

It’s paranoia,—
of all those scenarios you paint out in your head,
bleeding out emotions that every tastes red.

It’s cold hanging feet,—
of the next step I’m so afraid to take,
bent out on my concerns and feeling out of shape.

It’s a sharp knife,—
thinking about how many cuts it takes to ****,
hurting yourself every day to see if you still feel.

It’s a smile,—
you show off a happiness they want to see,
a slave to the traumas that won’t let you be free.

It’s crawling in your skin,—
so reluctant to walk any further,
living up to life’s hype of jumping over another hurdle.

It’s feeling insecure,—
amongst the familiar faces in the crowd,
hangouts with friends but feeling like no-one is around.

It’s feeling lost,—
in a world full of so many others,
avoiding to be grey in a world of so many colours.

It’s all that I once was.
Her lips were cold as a Winter’s bone, sending sharp chills down your
spine. His kiss was like a Summer, with it’s sun warming up the days.
A Spring of blossoming scented flowers, no longer shy to be openly
seen.

The butterflies in search of nectar, being the ones in her stomach. As
with the fall, they had both fallen in love during the Autumn.

He would forever be her seasoned kisser.
Soles of white dusty red shoes,
Old laces, and pieces of plastic on the tips,
Newspapers to add space in a mediocre label,
Fake Vans, that ironically says, ‘Original’
In place of that brand’s tag.

Red, and reliable like the last piece of value,
In a house of not many valuable things.
Except the memories of the places I’ve walked,
Bruising my ******* jamming my back heel,
Into a rather than tight new pair.

“These are supposed to be size nines”

As like the age my foot grew longer than I did,
Taking every corner before I did. Indicating loudly,
Which next turn I’m going to take.

Truly shy of my foot without the covering protection,
Of a common shoe. Don’t judge how far I’ve been,
By the measure of the state of my shoes.

I haven’t been that far...

Though I would like to have,
To foreign places like the land I bought my shoes.

Today I had to throw them away,
Which felt like I threw away...

A piece of a memory,
A piece of my wealth,
A piece of myself,
A piece of favourite clothing,

Worn so proudly on my feet.
Farewell to my reliable old red shoes...Sigh!
I've traded the butterflies in my stomach for birds
woodpeckers,— they seem to be of the groans
I have around
you.

tap, tap, tap

There goes the sound of my love for you,
flying south to the warmest parts of
my heart

Truly I am bird shy in expressing my love

Is this truly
love?

Butterflies are birds now
What am I doing so wrong in my life, to not be moving any
further ahead? How many counts do I need make, to soon realize
I’m running out of breath?

Am I dead?

No, not yet!

But as close to the feeling, with blood running through my eyes,
to only see red. It could be my last time to wake up alive in my bed.
The confusing phrase of, “he/she woke up dead”

Where I rest my head, lays the thoughts of dealing with life’s pressures
and pointless cares. Gaining less of self-respect, and losing some of
my hairs. Especially at an early stage, as I disengage from people who
act my age.

Well the previous one at the least.

Being too young doesn’t have much to give, but just wasted time.
Living without much direction, missing every sign. Pretending you’re
all fine. Flipping girls over for a change of finding a dime. I’m funding
my love, but quickly losing interest. They could be so many out
there, but I’m not a fan of all the kinds of fishes.

Those constant sweet nothings, and long tongued kisses. Not
really much of a fan, when my opinions to them are blowing in
the wind. I’m just blowing in the wind, with the echoes of it
tickling me down in my knees.

Sigh! I take a few minutes to quietly breathe.

Testing my own winds, to see if I still feel. Ha, I’ve watched an
emotion develop into being. Proceeding far ahead of my delusions
that trick my out of the things that are real.

Sigh! I take a few minutes to quietly breathe.

Blowing in the winds, blowing in the winds, blowing in the winds.
A windmill of my life, all of which spins on repeat.

How do I stop myself from blowing in the winds?
With love, we are made from love
To love,— we are once loved
Give love to receive love, be love to see love
And speak love to taste love

We are all love...
"I'm the sweetest"
so said the grapefruit by it's looks,
"I'm the most mature"
so said a sour big grape hanging on,
"I'm the tastiest"
so said an apple with a worm in the centre.

Oh the denial of beauty, alas it's subtleties
are just a bite in moments.
But what fill does it have,
of it's tastes?
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