Steer clear of malice;
To speak of arrows tipped in actuality and respond justly toward malignity.
Lest I fall under the gaze of malice becoming putrid within.
Heavenly Father above.
You paved the way to a damaged youth yet,
Almost commonplace to allow surrogate protectors,
Crawl inside my flesh only to be spat back out once again.
I realise I am not but the woman I thought myself to be;
Only an interchangeable piece in the mechanism.
A piece in the mechanism,
Intertwined between countless souls on the way of my path.
I knew you
and you knew me
Our messages told stories
of us taking over the galaxy
Rip away the flesh that clothes this unclean soul
Raw muscles and veins exposed only to realise, beauty is not only skin deep.
The dying soul that hides behind this flesh, this facade,
Rotten and decaying
I realise it is not some poor soul only to be given my slight sympathy from afar
But my own
True beauty, may lie in pretty little things, but it also lies in our silent suffering
King of the streets yet oh so sweet
He'd bring the devil to his knees,
A heart that skips to the beat of his surroundings
A mind that could bring into existence,
A kaleidoscope; deduction beyond comprehension
Ideation beyond reason
He, is a diamond in the rough
He, is but an idea of his own creation
A light in a darkness
A hope in my soul
When I wrote this for you, I never knew how much I would appreciate having something to remember how I felt about you.
The essence of your being is here to stay
as it infuses with my skin and heart and eyes and touch
my skin has been tattooed through your caress
and my heart has been mended by the way your eyes peer into my soul you fill me with love and make me whole
in retrospect i truly thought i knew what love was
but this was all a lie until i had met you
masochistic obsession is all i was familiar with
blinking the past away
i am aware of you and our future and our present
and how i will never let that get away
my life is sadness
As if you didn't already know that,
I'm a teenager after all
But this isn't a poem about a sad wasted life
It's a bland poem about a sad artist
Nothing I can ever do will make it meaningful
There's no point to it
I can create,
Write some profound or empty poetry
Make some genius or contrived music
Paint some **** or beautiful pictures
gentrify my sadness,
make it pretty
make it art
It doesn't make it anything more than a black hole
a black hole that throws out a portrait of a boy with a million eyes that can't see anything
I realise now
no matter how much I dress it up
And even if it's pretty or artistic
it's never going to be more than that
I realised how much of a little poseur I am. How terrible.
Silence is nothingness, yet it speaks
A million words packed into a mere few seconds which seem to last a painful infinity
Your silence it speaks, it is manufactured to torture
Your eyes filled with hate
Now here I stand, begging you to speak, something, anything, but nothing all the same