I am a cat.
Curiosity has killed me.

i lived in the valley of butterflies
and it is now winter

Let me be a stranger to the consistent licking of melancholy
For her's is an anchor that I can just quite out swim.
It is tiring.

he eats all the guilt like inhaling air
i wish he would taste his innocence too

i am living the days a prisoner lives where every moment feels the same and nothing is exciting.
i am locked up in a pretty scape of land
my dreams are made of sand
and castles crumble
and my own hands are numb
the brand of illusion.

dystopian

where there is love, there is also pain.
but where there is love, there is hope.

in my coffee *** of dreams
where the flowers wilt and die
there are pennies and they gleam
with the light of Luna's eye

i am the pollen of a poisonous flower;
carried by bee
made into honey
collected by keepers;
unintentional reaper.

Though she was illiterate,
her eyes closed and her mouth opened,
and from her lips sprang melodies that would easily appease Apollo.

did I ever tell you what I saw?
she was there, sitting, still and blush, looking like she had been shot and she was frozen in the moment the arrow had pierced her.
she was chained to the world, while her heart wandered below.

and did i tell you the things I would hear?
nothing. silence. in the air, there was nothing. I swear if I placed my ear against her chest, I'd hear nothing but the begging of her vessels to cease their tiresome beating.

what I tasted?
the breath of her lips was from that of a stilled lung and dry lips. stale and pale as a ship that sails over tides and beneath wales of a frail moon.

touch?
I could touch nothing around her, or she would shatter. The wind was like a hammer to a nail in glass. The utterance of a single songbird would echo into her grey eyes and boil her to dust. Not magic, but a curse.

scent?
it smelled of lilies, and nostalgia. and each memory was a traitor which made her question, "How could I ever have trusted you?" For memories are blossoms one happy moment but bruises the next dreadful one. Often, we forget sunshine when it rains. Often it is when thunder strikes that we cower in the absence of blue.

who am I
who am I
who am I;
I feel like a flower, forgetting rain while it is sunny.

Tell me different things thousands of times;
if I am melting in the heat of the sun, falling to the ocean, I should think it wouldn't matter. Even if you bid me peace.

Like the river encircling the boundless world, so too is the depth of the sky, unending, and so too are the waves, a reflection and a window to the holes of our world, bottomless.

the language of my love

                                                        it's you

goodnight stars,
tomorrow I shall know the Sun -
its warmth and fire

I speak of hope
like the dawn it comes, there, on the horizon

My street blazes orange
the lake hides in misery
the sky is beige
with the fires of a hot world

They embraced. Two bodies clashing together, silencing the cheers and holding onto eachother as if the world burned around them in triumph and destruction.

my dearest darling,
ce qui est à moi est à toi
and smell a flower and taste its sweetness and know that the world holds you in its belonging caress so that you are symbiotic and chaotic and live free and happily and loved.

She was surrounded in summertime.
Her name was written in the wildflowers and she was surrounded in summertime.

Fresh water and salt water,
do they ever mix and mingle?
Salt water sinks and the fresh water floats,
looking so strange in its segregation;
so dangerous to swim between.

thump thump, thump thump, thump thump,
a heart bleeding from love or from burden?

And in the cries of sunshine she declared her love -
I was getting struck by lightning at her promises;
The heart I once owned was away in the winds.

She has short hair that sings with her smile
and she is still holding the hand of childhood innocence tightly -
I hope she doesn't ever let go.

A breath so epic and golden and extreme,
lips that whisper like olive branches and shooting stars,
eyes that hold constellations and dreams,
pinkies touching and the silver rope of love's string -
the kind of love I'm yearning for.

It's sunny outside for the first time in a few days and I'm watching it while I type on my computer. Wasting the day. I'm tired of typing. I'm tired of being tired. I just want to be free.

lovely is such a good word. maybe my favourite.

When I first came here I didn't know how to write and I think I still don't know what I'm doing.

I miss being a little girl,
ignorant and happy and loved.

"we can keep going, or stay right where we are -
because a fighter comes back with at least one invisible scar..."

1000 mistakes
might be what it takes;
100 hearts spared
before you're aware;
1 million dollar bills
before time kills;
an eternity of hours,
before the seed becomes a flower.

how do i write something good to me,

something worth it?


something that holds me in that captured, raptured, fractured



memory?

Oliver danced
Olivia glanced
reflections were found
on the ground
by chance.
then again, today,
I heard Oliver say
"She was ever so kind -"
To be stuck in a mind...

Once upon a midday mourning,
thoughts and thrashing came a-swarming -
came to me, without a warning,
stayed in tide 'till the next morning.

Cherish it, children -
cherish the cherry blossoms for they bloom in spring and fall shortly thereafter.
Cherish the clear sky for soon enough, smog will cower in the corners of the night.
Cherish the freedom of childhood; soon you'll turn ten and be off to college or travel the world.
Cherish this second because it's over before you realize how many milliseconds went away with it.

I think I lost my innocence when I knew a hug wouldn't erase the problems in my life.


But it helps.

she washes her face with cappuccino cream
her eyelashes are showered in burnt coffee.
It's never been so hot in June
and it has been months since she's peeked at the moon.
One month left, she tells her reflection -
that is, one month left until summer truly starts,
one month left until papers are due and life is true
one month until you swim in purple stripes
and ticks take hikes
and lines catch pikes.
One month left and then you can let go and fall apart.
And then...
What will hope behold?

When I was young, I hadn't learned of wars.
I thought they lasted hours, not lifetimes.
When I was young, I wanted to live in my room forever.
I didn't know there was a world past my backyard.
When I was young I played with kind kids.
I didn't know that people were mean because of someone's home.
When I was young, I disliked school.
I didn't know how much I took for granted.
When I was young, I was terribly afraid of getting taken.
I didn't know how many children went lost.
When I was young, I was free and had infinite imagination -
now I am caged inside of it.

In my stories, I am the girl in the back with pretty eyes and bitten nails, a girl with a thousand classic books read and the daughter feeling somehow abandoned with a family that loves her.

In reality, I mind not the middle of the class, my eyes I find nice and no matter how hard I try, my nails only shrink with a cutter. I abandon myself and I confess to a bunch of strangers how twisted a little girl's life grows once she is exposed to the realities of her mind, poisoned by, well, society.

But honestly, no one is to blame.

have you ever had a coffee,
so terrible in taste but warm and inviting -
a place to numb insomnia.