Somedays I don't feel like writing
and it worries me because
'Writers write everday --
real ones, at least.'
I fear being ordinary,
which is tasteless because
maybe being ordinary
is what I need.

The appeal of snapbacks
and hipster haircuts
is starting to make more sense.
Blending into a crowd
might suit me better;
to be invisible but
to no longer be insecure.

Rap lyrics make more sense,
even though I can't relate;
these words are my sedation,
these clothes aren't armor
but marketable camouflage.
My words have been said before,
but that might be okay because
I'd hate to torment myself
wondering about my relevance.

So, to move on, I write,
and I write, and I write
to pander and to conform.
Substituting thought for
appealing diction and
strong imagery, afraid
to show myself because
maybe you're too much
like me, which, surely,
would eat me alive.

in the song
cool of the breeze
in the words of a painting
in the sky
of a dawn

until
my sight sings
tree branches dance
being mind
and spirit

where in
all that beats my soul
rocks back and forth
as the world
spins

takes me
a minute to catch breaths
to run loose
join in the
dance

I remain
just a small
piece of torn
fabric

tattered
old, insignificant

Can somebody please explain,
Why a lovely ice cold thick shake,
In a cup marked  large is gone,
Gone much too quickly,
Exquisitely delicious,
Trying to stay fresh and cool.
A rapidly empty cup,
Leaves me feeling a thirsty fool.
I hereby declare that I truly need another one.
To keep me feeling jolly cool,
while in the midday sun.
(C) LIVVI

Yell into my mouth the instructions for caramel,
please mishka,
my insides don't feel sweet, they're bottles of painkillers eaten with a raw hunger swelling and grazing all my skin. I feel pretty with you
and entirely worthwhile
but here
and here and here
I still hurt.

Your loveliness was never warm ginger in my stomach, it was the lily scent
to cover my decay.

I'll prepare a boat
to send my stupidity aboard
and provide it with a paddle
driven by the regretful memories that often made me shatter.

it motivates me
like breathing
or hunger
and I get impulsive
try to steal marshmallows
from the sky
wanting all of them now
and when I got mature
I forgot
how pleasurable
it can be to just reach up
in the clouds

I know what it must be like
to deal with me;
but I assure you
it's not as hard
as dealing with being me.

I simultaneously push people away,
keep them at a distance with falsities
designed to prevent incidents
like people actually getting to know the real me

and wish they knew enough to understand
why

why it is that I grew to become this.