It's raining. Drizzling softly. Tiny droplets are washing through me, washing wrong and pain away.
Quiet soul. Peaceful. Restlessness no more.
It's time to start over.
"Pick a star on the dark horizon and follow it's light"
Pursue your wildest dreams and never look back but to smile at an old memory.
Stop worrying over the past or the future. One is way behind you, and the other one is yet to come.
Live like there's no tomorrow.
Laugh. Cry.
Fill your lungs with pure air. Oxygen.
Power.
Let the pouring rain run hurriedly past you and sink into the earthy ground.
You are soaked and happy and free.
You scream at the top of your voice.
You sing and dance and fall to the mud.
Worriless. Blissful.
*Thrilled to be alive.

There once was a garden where everything died
Even the birds had flown off to hide
The mighty oaks had lost all their branches
As for the flowers , long ago had they all of their chances

Even the sky turned black as it flew by
Then all of the clouds had to cry and cry
The floods could not wash away the pain
Those who lived there died or went insane

Laughter had been banned years ago
The crow's kaw kaw , was never a show
The only sound that was to be heard
was the wail of the missing violin's words

Under moonlight , by shadowy night
The strings cried blood and tears for sight
Even the moon overcome lost one dusty tear
to the life missing after all of these years .

One day the cry of the music stopped
The last string had now finally popped
The violin laid down in the ground
and there was never again another sound

And years had now gone on by
No one living then was left alive
There had been a revolt or so
Flowers once again started to grow

Trees sprouted out and began to bud
You could once again feel life's gentle nudge
The grass carpeted the woodland floors
and happiness returned to all once more

Now all had forgotten about the violin
But sometimes if you listen to the midnight's wind
You can hear it while it goes about tuning
for all it's sins had now long been forgiven

I was the daughter of winter
when you began to whisper
in my frigid ear. I lifted two
snowballed hands and chiseled
through the solid ice; bitter
words pierced the raw mist
surrounding me, but you were
not disarmed. I tried to stop the
thawing, dreamed lustily of a
rapidly approaching sleep,
that deep freeze and muffled
silence. You stayed, shivered,
and I was suffuse in tender
sunlight, for you were an
Indian summer, a falsehood
by very nature—false hope,
false promises, false warmth.
Your lilting birds and sultry
air enchanted—I was dizzy
and drunk, melting slowly.
You sang in the soft breezes,
danced frantically in the wake
of falling leaves, and swore
with each delicate blue sky:
It will always be this lovely!
But you were just a charade.
I was no more than a pool,
heated from the diminishing
glow of your fervor’s twilight,
and Autumn waited, patient,
as the mask finally slipped.

We are critical.

We find flaws in
everything we see
because nobody
wants to write
about perfection,
even though sometimes
we wish we could just stay
staring into that
unblemished surface.

2. We are never satisfied.

We live our lives upon
mountains of
scrunched up
bits of refill and
ideas we gave up
trying to
express.

3. We never forget.

We write words about
eye contact made
three months ago
that we replay over
and over in our minds
even though it
stopped
being relevant.

4. We are fickle.**

Our emotions flash
from one
to the other
like strobe lighting that
disorientates us
until we feel as if
the world
will never be still.

5. We are exposed.

We don't know how
to keep our feelings
to ourselves so
we'll write them
down for
you to find
'accidentally'.

6. We are vulnerable.

We wear our
hearts on our sleeves
and won't lift a
muscle to fight back
if somebody tries
to break it
because we thrive
from the pain.

7. We will never stop.

We will never stop
feeling and
we will never stop
hurting,
we will never stop
breaking and
bleeding and
loving
even though the cycle
is endless
and we know what's
coming next.


We are addicted
to agony,
but we agonise
for the art.