Your words wage war; they've torn down the confidence I've spent a lifetime building.
The feeling of shattered self esteem is incomparable to any other pain known.
I've grown to learn to fend for myself,
to help myself, but I know all too well what it is like to hurt.

Your words are an artillery of hurt
each engraved with the letters that form the words
       D     E     S      T      R     U    C     T       I        O     N,

and
           H        A       T        E.

She says the gems that have become her eyes doesn't shine,
she's been force-fed lies by those who despise her differences:
because her interests are not the same as theirs and the air
that she breathes somehow robs her of her sense of purpose;
she feels worthless by the curse words that people fire her way
like a birthday cake at a wake, she says these gems leak liquid
as if being gifted was the plague she lays awake afraid of the night-
because in the night, the nightmares seem to follow her.

She feels little, belittled by people who go out of their way
to make her in their way, she is the bullseye in plain sight,
so in daylight; her smile becomes concave downwards;
the cowards seem to know how to always overpower her,
and like a sour burp; she is a clear warning of what may occur.

She walks pass so many houses everyday; unique in their own way,
but it is all for display because the families inside aren't always sunshine
and roses.

She says the gems that have become her eyes doesn't shine,
I say they light up more than she could ever notice,
because feeling broken occurred more than mending
and like sending a letter, she awaits on a pending paper
so that the pen and paper could cure her of the blues.

She says the gems that have become her eyes doesn't shine,
but oh how divine they are, if only they weren't coated in tears,
she'd be able to hear how much her eyes sparkle and glisten.
[Ohhh tragic: the twisted world we live in....
and with the life I am given, I will make sure she knows her eyes- they shine.]

The familiar siren echoes against the street's pavement
the blind maiden seems to play favourites against my colour,
as if the cover of my internal organs speaks of my character
and the caricatures show the nakedness of my colour, my skin.
If beauty is only skin deep, do I weep from the labels I wear?
Do I tear at my skin to rid the chains that bound me to history?
Does my glistening skin seem more tainted as time passes,
or do I scurry away to live in the separated classes assigned to me?

The green of the grass reflects off of my skin, I am green
I have been as blue as the ocean since the day I discovered life and death,
with each breath I continue to realise more and more about life,
like how my future wife might have to answer "you're with him for real?"
The teal of the sky would remind her to be patient with people;
life is a story, the sequel is how we choose to wield the pen and write,
the white blank paper may be filled with dots and marks,
like our heart it may contain scratches and bend but we defend it
because being defenceless in this modern day is a call for exploitation.
Colours should be labels given to objects,
why can we not strive to give a new label by removing our blindfolds,
why can we not just say I have a soul made of gold, or I am beautiful,
why can we not find more labels that are suitable in describing character?

The blind maiden is slowly starting to look pass my skin
and lawyers with pockets lined with green are not a definite win.
The barriers between classes seem to have tumbled, so stumble and fall,
we've all built our own defences in life, our own barriers,
but when shall we stop building and start breaking down barriers?

Leave winter days for winter, the summer might just yet vanish.

I wish I had a garden of guardians,
a place to plant my heart in, where parting ways-
and the resulting dismay are non-existent.
I wish I had a place to put my heart in,
where my heart remains fully guarded,
never to be discarded like broken business cards.
I wish I had a place to plant my heart in,
so that it could grow into roses and lilacs,
****** into a happily ever after, not to be mistaken for happy endings.
I want to grow a garden of stories, all of which rose petals-
settles on the soil, guiding me to the one who would hold my heart.
I want my heart guarded but enough so that it could still be stolen.

"Roses are red,
Lilacs are light purple;
I'm hoping the rose petals-
somehow leads me to you."

The auburn sky hasn't been auburn for a while,
it bleeds denial that everything will be alright,
but at night the sky in its expanse, expands my mind,
for it is at night that I learnt to love the sky in its disguise,
its mysterious eyes looking over me, not just the pair,
but despair seems to vanish, banished by a million eyes,
all that shine and illuminate the gated paths of my life.

I believe people call them stars, those eyes that look down,
but I frown upon such simplistic labels of stars,
but those eyes that gaze on me from afar are more than just celestial bodies,
those eyes that gaze on me from afar are
the source of my light and more or less:
my guardian angels, guarding from the complete darkness of night.

The auburn sky hasn't been auburn for a while,
and with a smile I say 'frankly I don't care,
as long as the night shares the guardian angels with me'.