Life's a blank canvas and the artist's sometimes not you, but those who once came into you.

Some have sparks so blinding you almost forget the charred mess they made; some have hands so warm you couldn't resist memorising every contours of their palms that you almost would make a replica of them; some leave lines so intricate yet untraceable you wonder if they were supposed to be maps that lead to somewhere.

Learn to draw on your own and draw for your own. Paint all that is intangible and paint all that you that you could hold. Remember that no one could love you better than you do.

I'm not dead
                                                                                                   But I'm not alive
I'm not living
                                                                                    I'm just trying to survive
We're all playing the same game
                                                                                              Just different levels
We're all in the same hell
                                                                                            Just different devils

There are so many things to learn from swimming in your broken pieces. You think you are drowning- you are not. The way to fix yourself is not to find someone who will dive into the pool of your brokenness just to tie you back together with their thin threads of skin. Along the way, you might fall apart again; and everything, along with them, might fall apart altogether. You can never call it love if you never were whole in the process- your heart isn't whole. Heed an advice: leave these pieces behind. Do not bother searching for a burial ground for they will never leave in peace, but only in pieces. You will be whole; these things that hurt you were never meant to be a part of you. And just perhaps, someday, you'd be able to love- much better than you used to.

The heart sees in colours
That the mind can't comprehend

petal frills and perfumed lace
roses vie for twirling space
each crimson face,
each quiet grace
does turn upon the silent stage
like a tide, an empty page
and sings in wordless ways

                               *"Beauty awaits, beauty awaits"