My poetry is my diary.
The trail left by my soul,
The song sung by my heart,
And the places my mind dared to explore.

The smell of roses,
So sweet a scent.
Yet held in hand,
You insist on pricking my skin.

They say there's pleasure in pain,
For me it isn't the same.
I find the pain in the pleasure,
Go too far without a tether.

From a dark place,
To this heavenly space,
Then back again,
Lapping in this hellish race.

I break free but it doesn't last long,
Soon I fall in love,
Try write another song,
But I no longer get surprised when it all goes wrong.

Oh tell me god,
Why does this confession feel like sin?
My smiled pulled to the edge of my cheeks,
You can see the grin on my face when she speaks.
But it's more than that, I feel a warmth in my soul, like a piece of me, once lost , is calling out to home.

And I'm excited but I'm filled with fear,
Always retreated when a heart came near,
Pushing away, always thought I was riding it out on the down stream,
But never realising I was on the upstream to my dreams,
Too afraid of what I see not being what it seems,
Falling apart I grab a pillow and scream,
Panic induced and breaking at the seams...
And I'm sorry but that's just me,
Carry my scars not physically but mentally and some times it makes me act detrimentally when clutched by anxiety, I'm sitting back, thinking, " what if everybody lied to me?", but honestly I'm trying to be that somebody better than me...for you.

So now...
I'm here with a confession.
It feels like sin,
But is only good intentions.