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we are thespians in a masquerade,
spilling our thousand acts of charade
whilst the soul bleeds on a blade
yet we float, neither alive nor dead.

we are dolls in a tea party,
choking on liquid vacuity
our heads a barren ghost city
nameless, aimless, brimming pity.

our middle name is empty.
i don't even know what this means besides a complete void. seriously. my head and my poetry account are almost dead.
I am no blessed poet nor songstress,
a sleepless mess, a jest in
swaying haziness
of **** peach and pinkish bliss
where I danced in faux Lana
and Marina skins
winning a couple hearts
his, hers, theirs, and yours,
lone wolf in romantic *******.

When the night show's over,
bows all over,
no faux skins of blessed poets
and songstresses,
neither, no more.

In my own skin, I am the sleepless mess,
the midnight mortal carving her bliss
and distress,
with the lights of blessed poets
and songstresses,
in a multitude of metamorphoses.
I couldn't sleep, hence this brainchild was born. Even to this very second of my life, I want to be someone else. I want to be the people inspiring me. But then, the right thing is to be like them in my own way, not to be them. I am me, in my own skin.

Loving myself and loving what I do is a long, seems-never-ending journey, but I am still trying.
once upon a time,
seven princesses
and a dreaming dwarf
stood in the face
of a broken looking glass.
a short, vague piece. insecurity at its finest.
i can still smell the pungent air of
my old shoes on your two feet
and see the boulder on your
shoulder—hence the welcoming,
open door.

never mind my silence, see those
bottles you sent knocking me into
a soldier in a warzone, fighting for
my sealed freedom.

i am breathing fine and well within
the confines of my room walls and
warm blankets, and i will not beg
anew a soft, suede-covered

i yearn a bow—a salute
to the space now.
i've had enough unwanted attention, case closed.
to the wailing winter winds, i whisper
then we chatter—no wonder
those passing through deemed me a lone goner,
chanceless of love knocking the door.

i am dead jaded over failing chases,
over hopeless Minotaur mazes,
of whirling harlequin feelings
dead jaded, romance has gone tasteless.

hear my voice from this warm solitary chrysalis
leave me be, singing my soul to the winds
for thousand times more—till it snows for the last.
i'm comfortable being alone, that's all.
sit, weep, drown,
and dawdle for long,
tending your open,
salted wounds
on the evening
you may—
yet mind your fate,
dear flower seed,
for you will thrive.

and swim mighty,
with all your liberty,
out of the sea
of sugar, honey,
ice, and tea—
the brimming filth
in them that keeps on
Clearly inspired—though talking about a slightly different but somehow related subject—by Bring Me The Horizon's new song from amo, sugar honey ice & tea, which I found out is a subtle and friendly way to swear. Some people are just full of sugar, honey, ice, and tea, just like Oliver Sykes said, lol. Along with Lana Del Rey, this band inspired a lot of my works.
dancing in the deep down
dramatic, lulling lays
of Lana Del Rey—

a quill on its snow-white
then tainted-black ground
and a flooded, brimful head
on its space—

till the airhead wakes and
weeps and wails.
A late post here, gotta admit that I still feel frustrated and mad at myself that I am unable to write lots like some of my friends. They are able to write long, gorgeous pieces even from the simplest of words.
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