You broke your little girl.

You dropped her head
in a boiling ***
and the pressure
broke her skull.

Fished her out
and set her
in the sun to
dry and dry and dry.

Your neglectful hands
left her there to turn
the color of things
trapped between train tracks.

And now she exists.
You can hear her
but you don’t understand
what she’s screaming.

Me and her are from dark places
She's from sharp razors of anxiety  
Cutting her vocal cords scared to speak of reality a broken voice that striped by her so called family
But to finally have some have someone listen to her raging thoughts and non parted lips seemed like an anomaly
So she told me what was on her mental
About the abuse from her dad
The fear of men who whistle at her
Men you harass like kids in a crowd yelling hey batter better to grab her a attention and tears fall from things she didn't want to mention I hug her and tell her what's wrong with me the loneliness of being in a room of people the depression creep and nightmare of creatures on top of me so from then we decided to speak with me taking care of her and her taking care of me

i shot an arrow into the sun
i don't know why i did
curiosity, i guess you can call it

but shortly
honey began to drip from the sky
and turned the sea golden

you almost wanted
the blonde waves to swallow you

imagine all of us--
together,
hair twisted with each other

like a fly preserved
in hardened amber--
a memory

Karma's got me by the neck.

The more i chase after my own happiness,
the more you hurt,
the more i hurt.


So i will stop wanting things. Have no expectations.


                      I guess im just not entitled to happiness of my own.


I'll swallow it one more time,

Then maybe god will see my plight.
Then maybe next time round


                               It'll be my turn.        


  
                                              ­                                     to be happy.

With a nervous grip, the girl picks up the paintbrush;
She glances at this boy's life, a blank canvas that gives her a rush.

She asks his favorite color; he says it is always baby blue.
So she listens to his preferences and across the canvas the paintbrush flew.

When she looks at the monochrome array, she holds such disdain
For she is an artist who cannot stick to such colors mundane.

Eventually she pulls away from the baby blues,
And gives him vibrant colors and vivid hues.

She fills his world with a colorful glow,
And puts her heart and soul into giving him a rainbow.