Pain is easy.
Pain is merely the existence of something that causes you extreme discomfort.
Pain is an addition to my plate.
A plate filled with emotion, thought, memories, etc.
But see, it’s the good things to be wary of.
Feelings of love, confidence, excitement.
The thing about those feelings,
Is that they fill your plate so full, that the bad things like pain and sadness fall off.
Which is great in that moment, except,
It’s so easy to lose those feelings.
So easy to have them taken away.
Those good things are desserts that people want to steal from you
But nobody wants to take your pain, the rotten thing.
So when your good thing is taken away,
You have nothing left.
The funny thing about an empty plate,
It makes you hungry for anything.
Even pain.

I remember our first kiss.
I remember the way my lips moved, the way you made me feel as if I was more than I am,
And I remember the way you surrounded me, embracing me.
I knew you loved me since that day and I loved you back.
Your touches were caresses, you felt like home,
Like I belonged somewhere
And I wasn't alone anymore.
I finally mattered.
I could talk to someone who wanted to listen,
That meant the world to me.
I know I must be annoying my friends with how much I talk about you,
How much I praise you,
But I can't help it.
I've never felt so comfortable or safe with anything in my life.
You are an art, and I love you.
I love to write.

When you said "I could drown in your eyes."
Were you implying that they appeared the color of the ocean?
Because you have brought a storm to my ocean eyes.

I didn't know that when you said you loved my mouth
That you'd grow tired of kissing it,
That you wouldn't care when it had something to say.

And the day you said my body was beautiful,
Who would have guessed that you no longer wanted to touch it,
That your skin didn't long for mine anymore.

The worst part about it all is when I look in the mirror,
When I see my own reflection,
Because you too, had ocean eyes

The art of the written word is everything.
Each letter is a tune,
A dance of the pen on paper,
The ink, the mark of a masterpiece.
Your brain connects to the pen
And they become one thing.
Thoughts are words not yet written,
Written words are those not yet spoken,
And whomever can harness both,
Is an artist

Plastic People, with their rubber dreams and artificial passions.
They're raised by their plastic parents who give them wax smiles, hollow promises for a future.
Plastic people and their perfectly polished personalities have superficial beliefs, in which they are the center.
Their corrupt ideals on intelligence place people in categories of A through F, score others out of 100.
Plastic people know nothing beyond the realm of themselves. Their selfless actions preceded by selfish thoughts.
Skills wasted singing self-centered songs, writing conceited poetry.
A plastic person does not know that they are plastic, but will accuse others of being so.
Now, what does that make me?

Each end,
And every beginning,
Are tied together in a loop,
Like the strings of infinity.
Our hearts beat together
In the web of existence
So long we last
Even in the eyes of pestilence.
The mortality of humans
Adds to the immorality of life
Every emotion lives on
Every tear, every strife.
Life is more than the pumping of blood
The alive do not all live
And how gone are the dead
When their stories are still said?

Walls and chains, walls and chains,
That is the metaphor for containment.
But do not forget that of your own mind
It'll lock you up and tell you lies,
Replaces emotion with logic
But the logic is just so chaotic
And you can't break free of this
In your mind, walls and chains are what you miss.
The mind is what convinces you to regret
Kisses and touches and feelings and yet
You know in your heart the feeling is true
Its like there's a war between the two
Walls and chains, walls and chains
They know nothing of containment.