So, what’s this all about love?
Everyone talks about it
Like it’s some gift from above
I don’t know what it tastes like
The sight of it eludes me
But I hear it’s like a lightning strike.
Call me cynical but I have other stuff to do
Thing’s to write, arguments to make
A lot of different things to go through
I’m still hearing “why can’t guys be like you?”
Instead of something nice like
“I think I care about you”
But with all that’s happening here
I find the simple idea of love
Something impossible to bear
Because I’ve got suff to do
So I can’t be weighed down
By useless dances of two
Of course, I’m lying right now
I really do want to love,
I just don’t know how.

I was sitting in a nonchalant coffee shop, overlooking the satin river. The moon's reflection graduated over the still waters like milk being poured into bitter black coffee.
As I sip my tiredness away, I mull over what the shadows of my hood secrete. The shameful, suggestive, sinful tones of purples and blues lay a lot deeper than on the surface of my colourless skin, but tints my vision to see though a red filter. Red. The colour of thick blood that pulses around my body - reaching every place that your sharp tongue has already claimed. Your words battered me. I'm not a piñata yet you continue to hollow me out. My blood leaked as if it were candy; your appetite, your sweet tooth was hungry for my suffering.

Depression suffocates it's victims.

It engulfs their thoughts with nothing less
than the repetitive deafening drumming
that have been put on display through the
art work on my wrists.

'Oh no it's my cat, he's a scratcher'.

They look at me with pity in their eyes.
Stop it.
Stop looking down at me like a lost girl who needs guidance,
like a stupid girl who needs to pop a pill to make her smile.

I'm no clown,

I don't feel the need to draw on a smile.
As if I'd believe my own pathetic excuses.
But do you truly realise what agony my own soul is feeling?
Do you know I open my skin up to release my demons?
Do you know I cry to cleanse my body of the holy water I surely do not deserve.

Skin and bones.
Scarred and fragile.

I sit in a room full of boisterous people
still feeling like part of the wallpaper.
Still feeling like the transparent vase amidst the
decorated clay pots.
The colour of my life has been stripped back to the bare
blacks and whites.

Purple
It was your favourite colour
You made me wear it,
you made me

When you was painting
Deep colours like
Purple
were your pallet  

Your canvas was pale white
clean and pure
Innocent almost
but your aggressive ruined it

Your paintbrush
you held it with power, pride
dominance
with brutal force

i was your canvas
and your brush your fist
you smothered me now
i am your favourite colour

purple.