Angel with the black tears,
Angel with the broken wings
What crime have you committed,
What immortal sin?
Was it lust that drove you crazy,
And made you fall into this land,
Or was it love that imprisoned you,
Like a whisper in your heart?
How does it feel like to be Fallen,
To be stuck here on Earth?
You once had a life in Heaven,
But now its a long-lost memory in your head.
Why are you crying beautiful angel,
Why are you crying mythical soul?
Is it because you miss flying,
Or because you miss your home?

You swear you're a lost cause
Once full of light and kindness
But now a broken statue.
And I believe you, oh I do,
For I can see the holes all over your torn body,
But I also see the colours being set free from those very holes.
These colours, which you have mistaken for plain blood,
Are creating the wigs you so beautifully wear
On your scratched and cut back.
And they may be invisible to you
But to me they are not,
Because when I look at you I see purity and light of heaven,
And the beautiful pain from a fallen angel's scream.

Our eyes met and it was weird. Your gaze was warm upon my skin and your shoulders looked familiar. Your lips parted, a movement I wouldn't have noticed if I wasn't staring there. I couldn't help but imagine your lips touching mine, it would feel like silk (I think). And just like that I kept moving and you were out of my sight but I knew that if I turned around you would still be there, your head now tilted, looking at your shoes awkwardly, you do that quite often and I don't really understand why. You look so pretty just standing there, if you were to hug me I feel like I would pass out or die. I like you a lot. Your nose is so pretty I don't get why some of my friends say it's weird. Your whole face structure is so beautiful, I could stare at your face, taken aback by its beauty, for hours and hours and so on

I say my heart is scattered on the floor,
and you say "I'm overdramatic".
You say that, but you don't see my arms hidden behind my back.
They're full of cuts, blood escaping the embrace of my body,
being spilled on the floor,
like cheap milk that got bad.
The very same blood, that was once running through my veins and my heart keeping me alive ,
has now left me.
It is creating small lakes of blood right next to my bed.
This is a ****** scene and i'm both the victim and the killer.
Well now if you think, if you really think about it,
my heart has-in a way- touched the floor.

Depression isn't beautiful.
It isn't romantic or cute,
it's not going to go away within a night
and it surely isn't attractive (or hot).
Depression is starving yourself,
and then eating way more than you should,
feeling disgusted by yourself,
throwing up knelt in front of the toilet.
Depression is not showering
(the hot water makes your cuts hurt).
Greasy hair and eaten fingernails,
it's thick black-red blood spilled on the floor,
running away from you like it's being chased after.
Depression is laying on your bathroom floor,
(which is ***** by the way,  from where you are you can see the dust around the sink but can't help to bother),
with the lights closed,
the sun is slowly setting
and without even realizing  it,
the cold hard floor feels even more cold
and the blood has dried,
on your hips, on your wrists and stomach.
Depression is a sea, the one that's deserted, with no soul around you,
to give you a hand when you're drowning.
Depression is many, many things,
but depression is not on any shape or form beautiful.

What is normal, really?
What does safety mean in the long run?
I watched a video about how "our life is a virtual reality game" a couple days ago and I felt scared and unsafe, so I closed the video and distracted myself with a movie so the feeling of normality would come back and warm me and remind me that I'm safe in my own little world.
But when does this run out?
I can't help but imagine the feeling of the safety net breaking just as death smiles at me from outside my window.
How tragically beautifu,
How beautifully tragic,
that bittersweet feeling must be.

You stare at her glass-like eyes,
a window to her soul,
as thin as an old stained glass,
ready to break at any moment,
ready to let hurricanes and thunderstorms escape from within
and create blue seas.
You stare at them, but you don't stare at her,
at her bones and her veins,
and whatever is left from a -somehow- still beating heart.
You don't see the cuts on her wrists,
time has healed them.
But didn't you know? Time is cruel.
It may have shed a new skin over her scars
but she still feels the cold feeling of the blade,
and the memories of her blood escaping the warmth of her body
are as vivid as yesterday.
You stare at them,
but you don't see them,
you don't see her,
you see your altered version of her.
You see blue eyes and blonde hair on a person,
you don't see a person who happens to have blue eyes and blonde hair.
You examine her,
erase and re-draw her
until you're finally satisfied.
You call her pretty,
but pretty we call flowers and Christmas lights,
calling a person pretty is as superficial as reading a poem and saying you like the ink.
You stare at them,
but you actually don't,
you may see a white raven
but you painted her wings white,
she was in peace with her darkness all along.