I look at myself and all I see is grey
I try so hard to pray it away
I know it's cliche
But I can't stand my own face

It's sad eyes
They see through my lies
My oversized thighs
My failure to revise
I despite this disguise

I look at myself and all I see is disappointment
Try harder I mumbled in exhaustion
What a collision
My own derision

One day, soon, I will look at myself and all I will see is joy
My reflection, I will enjoy not want to destroy
I will not be coy
As the sun dawns
All will be gone I vowed

I look at myself today and all I see is hope
For I am proud
I want to scream it loud in crowd
I am proud of me and you
And with that statement I feel so new.

You ask me why do I cry
I cannot lie
my heart is shattered into two
You ask me why am I so blue
I'll tell you why my dear
I'm all out of tears from the years I spent crying over you

I value my life as much as you valued mine
If I die tomorrow my dear would you miss me
I sighed and cried, yet I didn't not see you

This strong willow tree is nothing but a shrub
This strong wolf is nothing but a pup
This rainbow has no luck
That swan is nothing but a duck
This strong woman is nothing but a fragile girl

You ask me why do I cry
I cannot lie
my heart is shattered into constellations
because of your creations
across the sky they lie
watch the pieces shine
but it is all lies
they're all dead inside

The ones that like order, order order
The ones that don't, don't.
The ones that have, need it protecting
The ones that don't, don't.

Those with ludicrous possessions and wealth  
Create communities in despair
As their lives are dragged into ill health
Songs of revolution fill the air.

Your smug, glutinous lives are repulsive
White house, white boat, ***** conscience.
Though your email spying is intrusive
We now have a global mergence.

Oh, joy will flow when we've succeeded
Between us there is less and less distance
Ironically, your perverse lifestyle was needed
For you've become the Anarchists assistants.

The ones that like order, order order
The ones that don't, don't
The ones that have, need it protecting
The ones that don't, don't.

When should I write?
When boredom gets sculpted into motivation?
When a distracting thought
Bothers me long enough
To make me turn to it instead,
With ardent concentration -
Thereby perhaps making it
The topic of my next composition?

Should I risk completing that sad poem
I’d been working on for a month now,
When I’m in the best of spirits, today?
Should I try and imagine
What being happy sounds like,
In an unfamiliar milieu of words
For the sake of completing my poem,
Hoping it’ll lift my mood too?

Should I scribble away
The cold downpour of tears with
The harmless, vicarious vengeance of my pen,
The one thing I half-guiltily hold dear
When my anger endlessly battles with helplessness?
[Or are they not worth being written about,
As many tongues would simultaneously utter?]

Must I write in a state of ecstatic frenzy?
       Or could I have to leave that precious thought
                                   Annoyed, hanging in mid-air,
                                            When a trifling rush of new thoughts
                                                  Crashed my way, making me forget,
                              Why I was holding the pen in my hand,
                                               after all.



                                                      Epilogue:
                                               I think I must write now to find out,
                                               Before the ink of my existence dries out.

the trees have reached higher
into the spaces of the sky
all that space to dream
to fill to fly to be

clumsily, I fall -
whether it be in or
out of love with you.
similar to how
I bring accidental pain
upon myself, simply
from knocking
my knee on something
solid. clumsily,
I trip over my own
footsteps. I know not
my destination, or
what I'll do upon arrival.

clumsily, I allow
myself to create pathetic
fancies. stupidly,
I give you the power
to inflict
bitter pain upon me.
me, the clumsiest girl
you'll ever know,
who'd be
glad for whichever marks
etched upon her skin,
by you.

Where has the tide gone?
Why does it no longer,
Form a pool around my feet,
And send my aching body,
Into a fragile glass like state?

Where has the rain gone?
Why does the water,
Not fall from the parting clouds,
And crash down upon,
My broken bones?

Where has the wind gone?
Why does it no longer,
Wrap it's wrath around my core,
And wind so tightly,
Around my vacant soul?

Where has the sun gone?
Why am I left alone,
In the absolute darkness,
Unable to feel warmth,
Diffuse across my skin?

Why can't I feel pain?

Why am I so numb?

lights on lights off
a sailing fluffy cloud
changes the world