There’s an innate understanding in sadness.
To look at the moon and to notice the shadows
Is not to ignore the haunting glow of its shine.
To look at what hides behind the sunshine,
beneath its smile,
Is not to crave the silence in the night.
To keep dancing in meadows of light
But to start crying in the rain.
Each drop, both from skies and tears,
Washes away the built up layer
on cheek and earth.
That is beauty in sadness;
deaths kiss,
sweet and heavy.

Is this just rainfall?

Or is the sky weeping for us?

It’s an endless cycle. These words. These feelings. Black paint spread across my face hides the truth that lays beneath. You were once beautiful, shining like no other, illuminating every room you sat within. Now the room has fallen dark, and you only get glimpses of the sun through cracks in your mask. You’ve began to lose hope. The door sits, waiting for you. But you do not trust the journey towards it because you can’t see it clearly. It’s an endless cycle. These doubts. These fears.

~

I think about the simplicity
of writing
And of being a writer
And I realize
It is not that simple.
There is a fine line in their difference
To me.
I know I want to write
But I feel as if to write and to be a writer
Is two completely different things
Within themselves
To write
Is to pour out one’s self in efforts
Of articulating thoughts and ideologies
Through rhythmic wording and organized dances
Between ink and page.
But to be a writer
Is a lifestyle.
It holds a responsibility
To perform
To meet a standard of artistic expression
In the very articulation of an individuals thoughts.

Nothing in my head makes any sense.
Writing seems to be
the only thing that does.

sometimes it feels as if I've ran out of words to write
even though
the thoughts never cease to flow

thoughts
that
are
wonderfully
deranged

maybe they're better unsaid?

We slide into my room
And fall onto my bed.


Tonight, I sleep alone
but not lonely.


You, within my head.