i’ve done it again -
i know not why.
with tethered wings,
i sought to fly:
my feathers dye crimson
in the grips of disquiet;
a sworn enemy now,
though once an ally.

i fight the urge
to be myself.
yet, sometimes -
i get overwhelmed
by a sense of futility,
so strong, and lovely;
i’d trade the world for,
and all its wealth.

i hurdle through life
with a beacon un-flamed -
a blackbird through seasons,
with a spirit untamed.
i urge for someone to
light the torch,
so i may sew - the
verses i maimed.

and though i’m weary -
but not for worse;
i must prepare to die again.
tonight, i chase the truth -
for tomorrow -
i must lie again.

Who i face in the mirror
Isn’t me in your eyes
When i glimpse at myself
I see a sight to despise
A wide filthy monster
Skin pasty and pale
Self-deprecation is a sure thing i’ll never fail
Cracked, bleeding lips
knotted and mangled hair
There is not much to adore
No point in taking care
I compare myself, observe
Can’t help but stare
I desire a body
You’ll genuinely love bare

Once, a poet told me a story
about a charming girl
who received compliments from everyone,
But one day, her cousin arrived
someone even more beautiful.
The girl’s beauty faded into the shadows.
She grew despondent.
Her mother told her,
“When sadness visits you, sing.”

Kurt Godel was not entirely right so it is with Alan Turing to prove them wrong will be a big step forwards

lovv respect trust is tip of iceberg things gett better  with these sort off things

Open your eyes to see beyond the past,
Time, a reel unwound, looping too fast.
Enter future dreams lush with tears,
A kaleidoscope of fears and forgotten years.

The cigarette falls from her shaking fingers,
Ashes trace whispers where memory lingers.
Time, a distraction, but isn’t it all?
Strangers and entourage drift through the hall.

She was once a distraction—
A neon sign, a feverish attraction.
Now she’s a diagnosis,
A manic-depressive prognosis.

Regrets for the war within her rage,
Her soul, a novel with torn-out pages.
And yet, from silence, words flow clear,
Like ghosts dictating stories she can't bear.

Who are the strangers in this tableau?
Her reflection in fragments she’ll never know.
Time’s cruel arrow bends to her despair,
A loop of smoke curling in air.

Open your eyes, the past refrains,
Its endless echoes clatter in chains.
Yet futures gleam with dreams profane—
She writes them in ashes, again and again.