His were blue
So yours were brown
He was cruel
So you were kind
At least on the outside
Maybe all you were
Was not him

Above all, 
God is an artist,
and His greatest
creation is us.
We are made in
His image, and so
we create.
Our creations pale
in comparison to
the sunset, the mountains,
and the oceans;
but we try.
And sometimes, we succeed.
And it is good,
and He is well pleased.

"Write," people say.
"It'll help with the pain."
But what if every time I pick up a pencil
I only go more insane?

I stay in my depression.
I can't say I'm brave.
I'm stuck on this merry-go- round
and I no longer want to play.

It doesn't make me stronger.
It only makes me sadder.
If this goes on any longer
I know I will decay.

Writing is a reminder
of where and how I went wrong.
It reminds me of the regrets,
I'm hearing the same old song.

So when people tell me to write
I want to sit and scream.
All I ever wanted was
to leave this dreadful dream.

breathing deep expands the cage
but the heart knows no rest
only some sort of acknowledgement
a distant thought of sorts
that the heart be enslaved.

The words I cannot say to you
I'll trace along your spine
To a record player's susurrating song.
I fight the feel of falling,
Asleep or otherwise,
But the nocturnes lull,
And so you pull me quietly along.

- p. winter

One day
You'll regret it.
Be sure
That day
Will never come.
Because
I am here
To be your world.
If you want to regret
Regret the day spent away from each other.

Sometimes we're more loving at a distance, yet cannot be found. When we wallow in our dirtts of mind, instead of playing with the ground. Many still need to see, a path to their ultimate destiny - maybe then they can stop swearing feel-ty to Lords of woe and tyranny? <3 We'll see