A letter to myself:
“We're back here again,
this yearly cycle.
Start by hearing your voice from the past,
ask not why but how,
and keep your web strong.
It’s ok now,
things will get better for us,
all of us.
Now that the secret is out,
explore the doors that open,
and expect some to be painful.
Hats are your friends,
they will hold you and keep you warm.
A double sided symbol,
to show your life each day,
for the rest of your life.
The sounds may be stolen by winds,
but ink is heavier than air.
Heaven and hell,
there is no difference to me,
there is only the moment,
so snap out of this dream world.
Two quotes in my mind,
‘You must let these words run free’,
‘The only reason for life is the one you give it’.”

The wind has turned bitter,
The earth, frozen beneath my feet,
Traveling in a pack,
With our measly tent,
Wrapped up in blankets,
Huddled together,
The warmth thrives.

Outside the tent,
The wind bites,
The rain freezes,
Like tiny needles,
Looking in,
The fire that survives,
Gives no charity,
The gap seemingly infinite.

The fire gives no warmth
To those who will not contribute
Part of themselves as kindling.
But once this is done,
The fire shares its heat.

Learn this,
You'll need it
For being outside the tent
Will freeze your heart
And take your life.

A year has past,
And I am no longer the same.
But neither are you.

You were the girl,
Who turned from autum to summer.
With golden radiance,
I found myself looking to you,
As a beacon of hope,
In my dark sea of sadness.
You showed me the magic
Of paper and pen
And I was instantly enticed.

With every word you wrote
Every comment you spoke
I felt hope,
That I could learn
To voice my concerns
And finally earn
The right to speak, in turn

Now I don't see you write,
I don't hear your words
That resonated within me.
But it's okay,
Because you're doing something greater
Than just helping me.
You're creating beauty,
For the world to see.

And I am just as guilty.
In my metamorphosis,
I became complacent.
But a little medal around my neck,
Reminded me of the gift you gave me.
So those words on paper transformed
Into the sounds of my own thoughts.

You helped me find a voice on paper
But now it's become words

What is it that kills creativity?
Some say pain and oppression,
others say that it's the false constructs,
forced upon us by society.

But it is much simpler than that,
for creativity thrives under pain,
it paints its pain into words or pictures.
When happy,
creativity blossoms with inspiration,
and hope to share through pen and brush.

What kills creativity,
is the lack of emotion.
Numbness that suspends time,
disregards all wonder and presences,
for there is nothing to create when there is no dream.

So creativity floats in a sea
of numbness until new feeling is discovered.

We tell stories
of all the people we meet
and here you are
standing there just
watching me
relive the pain
from you
standing so far away
from this world I have ran
to the stars beyond us
chasing the image
it's you it is those
who dare try to help me
shatter my soul
with all the false constructs
a palace of dreams but
a prison of isolation no matter
their effects are all the same
things keep happening for
the cycle must go on
just as the seasons turn
to do great things
that I will tell
those who will listen
will learn my story
filled with those around me

The Grey is blurred,
It is not white,
Nor black,
But somewhere in between.
The Grey is vague,
It is not definitive,
Like its cousins,
But lost somewhere in between.
The others have homes and groups,
But the Grey is not accepted at either,
Because it has parts of the other.
So the Grey wanders,
For eternity,
Doomed to be,
Somewhere in between.

Repeat: to do something again,
the cycle on the washer & dryer,
matches the spin of my life,
everything constantly jumbled and changing.
I'm taken out after cycle,
folded neatly, worn and then I got back,
to be cleaned because I am ***** and a burden.

The same rules turn up each cycle,
the only difference is the players.
Each time I think that it will be different,
that the cycle will break.
But now I think,
that that hope is just a piece of jewelry,
that someone likes a lot for a little while,
then sends it away.

The story rarely changes,
the soundtrack is just and old broken record.
But every time, I  try to escape,
and then the game is over,
the other players leave,
some return,
but the close ones never do,
a fissure opens up,
to drop me back,
into the tumbling turmoil of my tale.

Everyday is the same cycle,
they lose their meaning,
because they don't change,
but I keep trying,
because I think something will change,
some Romanticized version of my story,
where things work, dreams are real,
but those dreamy ideals themselves,
work their way into the cycle,
and add to the rules.

Repeat: to do something again
"Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results."