Time doesn't heal.
And the wound knows it.
Layers gather on the ****
but the damage remains,
hiding itself deep inside
the secret scar

Sometimes
We are filled with confusion of
the term 'lonely'
The nature behind such assumption are..
We are well conditioned.
We believe the pattern of conditioned relationship
But, there is no such
We cheat ourself..
The Earth revolves alone
on his path
The same way, we are..
Hence
Lonely is certain
Relationships are accident
If you believe above
You are not alone with yourself..

They say pain hurts the most when it comes
knocking on our doors unexpectedly,
but I would beg to differ.
The most painful type of pain
takes years to cultivate.
it is when we,
for some reason
become so used to it
to the point that we become numb,
turning into statues of empty souls
dressing up as humans.

You say "I love you"
I say baby, I'm lonely
Lost in translation

you say I'm forward
as opposed to backward I suppose
upside down, right side up
but I just need to get lost

not think about to do lists
and appointments
and IEPs
and solving the mental health riddles
of these people I've created

I want to feel like I'm normal

so let me get lost, forward and backward
in your bed or my bed, your skin and my skin
I need to not think about tomorrow
tonight

I just realized
I can't remember the sound
of your ******

up there in the dark
every movement is honest
my heart's wide open

A word is simply letters
And letters simply lines
To help convey the many thoughts,
Which tangle in our minds.

And yet somehow we struggle,
To find what's right to say.
With all the words we've seen or heard,
Our thoughts still slip away.

We use our words as paintings.
We use our words as masks,
To hide from those who see too much.
We hide from what they ask.

When thoughts don't flow with words,
They tumble from our eyes.
We wipe them in frustration,
For revealing our disguise.

To some our words are power.
To others, they are shame.
To me they are a paintbrush,
No painting is the same.

To you they may be weapons,
Or as gentle as the dawn,
But no matter what you think of them,
The words will carry on.

I have not lived a-hundred years.
There is much I've yet to see,
And days which I have yet to live.
I'm not yet who I'm meant to be.

The people who I'll one day love,
Have yet to see my face.
The time will come for them to make,
The memories I cannot replace.

Perhaps I'll have a family,
Or, Maybe I'll remain alone,
If one day I should serve the time,
For sins that I can not atone.

Yet one thing is for certain.
It's the only truth I trust;
Just like the words upon a page,
I'll one day fade to dust.