i have mastered the art of being alone
now i am not quite sure how to be, together

turning tides and sickening waves
it comes in bouts
sea sickness in slow motion
an uncontrollable desire to scratch at my skin

it comes in bouts
the thoughts, the fear, the feeling;
an anchor of uncontrollable palpitations and irrational thought

for some people, home is where the heart is
my heart is a home
it knocks in my chest and one day i am sure it's going to knock itself down

home is where the heart is,
reminders of where my heart is come in bouts
dizziness and exhaustion
brown paper bags and air thick with lack of oxygen...
how close are you to passing ou-

home is where the heart is,
some people have buried their homes within me
and i cannot take care of my own heart - let alone yours
and i keep trying to stop the world from turning so i don't drown in these turning tides and sickening waves so maybe we can spend longer together but these waves come crashing in fast; like my heart beat, like that unforgiving train as it takes you further and further away from me

i have never felt so close and yet so far from you

some people have buried their homes within me
i am more derelict building; abandoned farmhouse; isolated corner shop than i ever could be home

there is graffiti all over my walls and it masks irrational thought with shadowed wisdom and make-believe positivity

i was not built
i was misconstructed;
the site that gets knocked down before the real construction begins

and no one is safe to live within me;
for as homely as my heart may seem, it is overpowered by turning tides and sickening waves.

not every touch is there to scar you,

some are there to hold you

and you cannot shield yourself away out of fear that every touch is going to leave you crawling in your own skin from the itching and itching and burning and burning

because then, then you miss out on the really ******* good touches

the touches that ignite a fire inside of you that you hope keeps burning and burning and ******* burning

because it doesn't itch, somehow it soothes. it burns and it soothes and you've never felt anything like it and there are no scars, just a house on fire and every time a window smashes the exhilaration and adrenaline and exhilaration and adrenaline pours out of you and into you all at the same time.

fireworks do not compare to the explosion of endorphins, ramshackled and rummaging through you.

not every touch is there to scar you,

some are there to hold you.

you are white musk smoky rose
burning embers of a forest fire emanating sweet smoke
you are a fresh white wash of paint
bright and vibrant and you make everything else look tasteful and inviting
you are dewy lips and sunken-in eyes
heart shaped cupid’s bow and crystal iris’
you are winter when everybody wants summer
you catch icicles in the palms of your hands
and the bitter cold runs through your fingers
and i never did like the heat
you are a mirrored maze of thoughts bouncing back and forth and straight through
and sometimes when you get lost i am the echo that pulls you back to real life
that pulls you back to consciousness and dusty television stands full of 2D fiction
i am the echo that tells you it’s okay to be just as lost in reality as you are in the mirrored maze of your meandering mind

you are black musk misty rose
burning forest fires to ash and decay
destruction and disarray
you are a mysterious black wash of paint
dominant and demanding and you show others how to be bright beside you
you are hollow cheeks and lack of sleep
sheepish glow and bloodshot tunnel vision
you are winter and nobody wants summer anymore
they want to be feel icicles melt in the palms of their hands
they want to feel the bitter cold run through their fingers
they don’t like the heat anymore
you are a glass maze of treasured thoughts and i see straight through
i am the echo that pulls you back to real life
that pulls you back to consciousness and overused vinyl players
and they want to listen to your music but they don’t want to take a walk around your glass maze yet i have completed it hundreds of times
i will always be the echo that tells you it’s okay to be just as lost in reality as you still are even when the maze is made of glass because it is still as fragile

you are red musk desirable rose
burning embers of a forest fire to ash and decay and destruction and disarray and making it look so ******* beautiful
you are a scarlet red wash of paint
lustful and deliriously enticing and you show others how to love that which should not be loved
you are sun kissed freckles and unkempt hair
loved by that which should not be able to love and imperfectly perfected
you are winter and summer, you are autumn and spring
i still want to feel icicles melt in the palms of my hands like my heart did in yours when i first kissed you
i want to feel the bitter cold warm up on contact with my skin and transform something solid into liquid – a chemical reaction similar to the one that happened inside my head because of you
i love the cold
i love the heat
your mirrored, glassy mind will always be a maze but i am patient and i will always be your echo
you are white musk smoky rose
you are black musk misty rose
and you are red musk desirable rose
and i love every shade to you
every mood
every scent
always

so i've been thinking a lot about death and what happens when we die, not in the sense of what happens to us because i'm pretty convinced my own thesis is what happens just like religious people are convinced of an afterlife (i guess we're both the same that way - we both think we're right) but in the sense of what happens to those around us. what'd happen at my funeral, who would be there, who i'd expect to be there but who wouldn't be, if the people who claim to truly care would follow through with that notion when i was gone and i don't know i'm just finding it difficult to trust.

i want to better myself as a person, i want to be good and do good and be honest and pure but i don't think living a life like that is living truthfully. you gotta do bad and be bad at some point to realise what good is and how to be good and you have to tell a lie in order to understand the beauty of honesty.

i have so many demons in my closet that i'm sure would probably be more than happy to see me when i die.

i'm not planning on dying any time soon but i can't seem to stop thinking about what will happen when i do and if i'll have lived a life i'm proud of, if i'll have been successful in my own mind in everything i wanted to achieve.

if you think about it on a grand scheme, we are born as nothing. we are no one when we are born and who we grow up to become is shaped by family, friends, environment and surroundings and personal growth. we haven't come to realise the structure of society, we haven't yet come to realise that we're little more than a piece of paper and a tax code and when we die we become two pieces of paper - one to say we were born and the other to reconcile our death. but see, no one ever knows what happens during that period between life and death. even babies have things happen to them, some have their first taste of food, their first smile.

one day all of it is gonna be gone and so i wonder what it truly is that we're all living for and as a species so advanced and so knowledgeable, why are we so stupid? it's simple. peace is simple. yet it's the very things that are infused into us when we're born that we grow up with that shape who we become and i wonder who i may have been or how i may have turned out differently with a different upbringing in a different location with a different atmosphere and environment. we're nothing when we're born and we grow up to shape our own future and that's scary. we never, ever stop learning throughout our entire lives and yet we are expected to create a future for ourselves without ever being fully, completely educated.

i just know that when i die, i don't want hundreds of people to feel my death. i would rather be wholeheartedly remembered by few than briefly remembered by many. all i know is i want to live a wholesome life and this is something i keep coming back to. i may not know all there is to know but i want to use what i do know and put it to good use. i might have been a different person had circumstances been different but i am who i am and if i'm not proud of that fact, who else is gonna be?

i'm just so sick and tired of this whole system making human beings put themselves down and always making them feel inadequate so much so that even those who are supposed to care begin doing it to each other. i guess i'm a dreamer and a massive one at that, because i dream of a time where the human race as a whole lives collectively, in harmony and tranquil peace and everyone's death makes an impact no matter who they are - homeless, black, african, gay, caucasian, transgender, muslim, christian, jew, atheist. i don't know.

i would love to be a spectator at my own funeral and come back in a hundred thousand years to see how the world develops and i find it a bit melancholy that i won't be so maybe i'll add it to my list of books to write and keep going.

For the first time since I can remember I felt like I was graced with the same regality as those who sit on thrones built from bricks of solid self-esteem, sealed with the plaster of confidence.

Every sweet silver tongued sentence that dripped from their mouths like honey helped to sow the seeds of yet another flower on my crown, blooming with the promise of an ever elusive beauty I have never had the honour of meeting before, until my crown blossomed with the sweetest scent and the prettiest petals you had ever seen.

These buds would encourage this forbidden nectar to fill in the gaps, to flow around and in between every crack and crevice in my self-polluted soul, mending, often overflowing leaving distinct pale pink kisses on the apples of my cheeks, and the dreaded dimple that is so often hidden would emerge from the shadows the moment that sweet nectar touched it and it was no longer afraid of showing.

Then you, sir, with your eyes shying from stardust could only speed the process, equipped with nothing but a rusty toolbox consisting of rosebud lips and blistered hands I know would never dare break my fragile stem, but be the foundations for my desperate, clinging vines to grasp so maybe someday I could taste the sunlight coating my lips, and veiling my skin the same way it did that one time I actually felt beautiful.

My legs were solid and strong, making just the right contact with the earth for me to keep my balance, my stomach a valley with just the right kind of hills and dips for my weary eyes to travel on, and I was blessed with a head held high paired with piercing eyes that only said that I wore all my flowers proud upon my crown.

Even if seeds of doubt still plant themselves in the caverns of your mind telling you that they will probably wilt the next day, you still water them with the tears you have left because ******* they are prettier alive.

Suddenly the sweet sound of ‘thank you’s echoed from my mouth to replace the bitter, constant taste of denial, and loathing took the form of loving and I embraced every second of it.

When someone at long last sees the galaxies in their own eyes and the pure luminescence of their soul, why must it be cruelly crushed by comments determined to blow them off course when they finally know exactly where they want to drop anchor, what is wrong if I decide to start with myself because I am living with me for the rest of my life and I realised I had better get comfortable. Self-respect, self-esteem, self-confidence, it all begins and ends with you, you are not just a chapter, you are the whole freaking book, so allow kind words to embed themselves in your skin and etch their outlines on your bones and it’s a pretty good way to start the first paragraph.

So let me be an empress, let me be a queen, no longer the princess of low self-esteem, rip off the nametag that reads ‘handle with care’ because you’re not breathing right you are not even aware of how much you are worth, step into your skin, accept every beautiful inch of you because you’re not going to win a battle where you fight by beating yourself, your body is not a warzone, but darling if you breathe in all the dirt you can take you’ll be exhaling the prettiest of flowers.

I know that it’s hard, but trust me, honey, you will grow so tall, you will blossom my friend, even though you may fall once, or twice while you climb.. keep your eyes fixed on that sun, and you’ll be just fine.