Focus On Me
I can tell your curious
Written on your lips
I here doing what I like
When  ur here
      Focus On me

We’re painting the roses red
Because the white isn’t good enough
It’s too innocent, too pure
It’s petals not yet touched by the crimson dripping from our hearts
What hearts?
Hearts we build out of plastic
So that bullets shot at us leave no drastic wounds
Only indents
Nobody says anything
We wrap lace around our rotten cores
Hopeful that beautiful will one day mean forgotten
And our mistakes won’t haunt us like stairwell ghosts
They’re band aids we place on each lesion
Doing whatever it takes to create shield of armour for our castle
Can’t you see you’re a castle?
A castle built on top of the ground you were pushed down upon
Where the white roses grow
Words are like arrows aimed at your throat
And you can’t breathe so you close your eyes
Covering your ears like a worried toddler
You hide and inside you build treehouses
With signs that read “No Trespassing”
Throwing stones at a fleeting reality that begs to be let in
But you’re terrified of what you’ll find waiting
Because you’re still just a child
Aren’t we all children?
Children left timid and quivering
Who pity themselves as lesser beings
Two halves in two worlds
Built only on broken roads that wish to bring harm
And their arms feel weak from reaching both distances
Somewhere along the way their compass was smashed
One hand pointing north, the other south
So they call themselves worthless and keep their mouth shut
But why does that make them the lamb and you the lion?
A lamb that counts their scars as they grow
And notice they all look like people
Snakes in mankind’s clothing
Who asked you to love them but their fangs sank too deep
They couldn’t see your innocence bloom in each petal
They assume that your heart is as damaged as them
Admiring the view of rose covered gardens all painted red
Where everyone wants to be different or dead

Nowhere to go
No money to spend
Just a book in my head
With a pen in my hand ✎

We're just soaring on this earth.
Without course, a floating asteroid,
with no worth, it's our planet of birth.
Of meaning, all there is, is void.
Always wandering to some north,
pretending life of merit is not devoid.

I'm not writing full of depression,
it's just the same old realisation.
Don't wanna die, just a bit whatever,
waiting for a change in this monotony.
Tired of waking up, wish I'd sleep forever
or that something would entertain me.