You can't decide if you're a good or bad person

                                So you create a version of yourself you want to be

Are you an artist?
                                                                     Or a lie?

Love is indeed the most tragic form of art.

Regret is a doorless cage
That we put ourselves in.
And we stay and dwell within it
Despite our longing to leave.

My words; my words are my paintbrush.
My words; my words are my voice.  
My words are my expression, my thoughts, my way of life.
What I write are my words.
What you write are your words.
Like a painter what I write is a masterpiece. To me.
My words have meaning, my words have life.
My life, is my words.

I dive in deeper for you,
swept away in our microcosm.
Fragments of lost loves
dissolve on my tongue,
evaporating into the dark
as your words soak into my skin.
And all I can think of is you,
My hand in yours
My head on your shoulder
Your restless knees tapping
in time with my heart beat.
And I know I can’t be saved
when nothing else compares
to being next to you.
You're all I need to breathe.

I find comfort in the bottom of a swimming pool,
the streams of light overhead
quietly drinking in the water,
lapping at this microcosms feet.  
The familiar weight
in my ears drowns out the noise,
The coolness against my soft skin
feels weightless and beautiful
the eventuality of breaking the surface
is almost sorrowful
No one can touch you here,
like a stone you sink slowly,
you are cut free from the ties
that have held you for so long
and just like the tiny bubbles
you'll race towards the curving surface
and into the light
and realise you were never meant to breathe here.
Not long is left and you break through,
only wanting to escape
back to where everything
was so clear, and so simple.
But, although out of the water,
and into the hands of a new morning
the fingers still curl around your neck,
and you realise
you’ve been holding your breath for a long time
and you're still holding it
And you wonder
if you’ll ever breath again.