All of my friends describe their lives with color,
creating vivid displays of emotion and art,
and if I were to pour my soul into one of these displays,
and brush a canvas with my words,

I guess I would start somewhere with the negative.

A midnight blue finds itself on my brush when an emptiness is present,
and a touch of this hue mixed with a granite gray soon becomes the loneliness, almost always paired with the melancholy.
My brush shifts upwards towards violet and juniper green, and I find myself becoming more content with being alone.

Then I paint the anger,
The crimson red and fire orange penetrate the mellow colors of depression and point fingers at others.
With each brush stroke I torch another bridge, leaving my friends in ashes and my pride untouched.
Black streaks of hatred stain my canvas and my love while I try my best to calm down.
And once the rage dries up and settles, and we get past my mindless mistakes, I move on to the positive side of my art.

Light greens and yellows dance upon the blank white canvas while I Paint Summer nights and pastel skylines.
Shades of sapphire pass by when Laughing with all of my friends and adoring her perfect freckled face.
These colorful drugs course through my thoughts, and leave me with a love for life and a honest smile.

I wear these hues at different times, and drench myself in the life they give,
painting canvases and promises for others, and living in a world of my own colors.
Accenting pain, sorrow, and sadness. Punctuating love, joy, and living .


                                                 My words.
                                                 My canvas.
                                                 My beloved.
                                                 My life.

I'm sick of these ******* enigmas.
Speaking in tongues and whispers and acting like I'm the nothing.
So I sit. And I stare. And walls never felt so comforting.
And if you focus, really concentrate, your vision closes in, and you can almost turn off the laughs. Until someone shatters the focus with an "are you okay?"

"Am I okay?...Of course I'm ******* okay..."

And it's true.
Honestly.
It took time, but once I got past the fact that all of my friends wear masks around me I decided to wear one too.

Turning illness into a weapon never got me far.
Turning illness into art only glorified scars.
Turning illness into stories only got others sad.
I think that illness is the best friend that I have ever had.

Somewhere In the black and freezing ocean of mid winter lies her body,
resting in a permanent slumber and dressed in a gown of soft silk and ivory. Casting hurricanes and arctic rains at the tips of her pale, thin, fingers, making sure that the rage built up from years of pain never ceases to linger.

Years before, she cast herself off of the cliffs of agony and fell into the sea,
and compared to the demons that haunted her in life, in the water she would rather be. She left a note to the burdens she deserted, and it mockingly read, "I leave this hell behind me, with you in my life, I'm better off dead."

You wore a complex pattern on your face,
one that I hadn’t seen for a while,
and I didn’t think I could fix it this time.

You looked at me and said “I’m fine, and it’s not your fault,”and the fake smile was plastered onto your perfect freckled face.

I think it hurts more when you lie,
I think you lie more when you’re hurt.