At times it's hard to find my way
When all I do is run in place
If I ever get to where I am
Will I then find there's nothing left

If I could make it to the crest
Of the hill inside my head
Possibly will I then see
There are needs beyond just me

And of these lines upon my face
That tell of stories packed with age
Of all the battles I've been in
That I could neither lose nor win

In the running of this race
Where I find it hard to find my place
If I ever get to where I am
Will I then find there's nothing left

You know the type.
She's probably called something like
Isabella. Rosalie. Ginevra.
and you find her in the sort of novel where
she's outdone by someone called something like
Jane. Agnes. Lucy.
She's remembered in criticism as
Trivial. Silly. Foolish.
She's defined as Shallow. Vain. False gold.
She's analysed as the mirror, the contrast or the foil
and you're supposed to vaguely dislike her.
She'll reaffirm to the reader that the heroine,
whether she be plain or beautiful, is always, in the end,
Rational. Independent. Brave.
She reaffirms the heroine as someone who
learns and grows
while the silly girl is left looking at herself in the mirror.

The thing is sometimes I feel more like the silly girl,
the girl who needs a hand, the girl who reads books
and wants to believe the stories.
Sometimes, I'm looking in the mirror,
chest deep in my own trivial, silly little worries,
looking at the puddles not the lake, and I know.
I know I'd be one of the silly girls,
not the heroine, out there, just surviving.
I'd be one of those silly girls and I hate it - and yet
- what's so wrong with the silly girls?

What's so wrong with the girls who love themselves,
or love the wrong people or love their clothes?
What's wrong with the girls who are
brave but not rational,
independent but trivial,
selfish but practical?

What's wrong with those girls,
because I always find myself preferring
the Ginevras and the Isabellas anyway.

i wish i could read minds
because the vibes are deafening
and i don't know what you're thinking
but i know something is wrong
i feel it
and see it
but i still don't know
what is causing it

s.s

What is lost and what is found,
In the ending year around?

Tried hard and could drop a pound,
But the efforts gave a health sound.

Lost a few so called friends,
In this way karmic debt ends...

Lost my way towards depression,
And headed for an old passion.

Good or bad, are the divine grace,
Got the strength to accept what i face.

Made some new awesome friends,
This is how the life now trends.

Gained enormous emotional strength,
And in the poetry, the desired depth.

Thankful to God for all the lessons!
Grateful for the countless blessings!

To accept the life as it comes,
No more new year resolutions!

They say being different makes us unique
But when our skin is different we become incomplete
If we are born to that of a race that is to dark
And not white
We become outcast
I'm not being racist but why is it that being black
Is looked down upon
Growing up id feel the constant stares the hate filled looks
Being a little kid i didnt understand
Just miss understood
I never knew what i consider my beauty others consider my flaw
Because i'm not like them i had to fight each day
Because i'm not white
I had to worry about being shot
Or getting killed by the cops
I'm not saying this because i'm black
And i may seem racist but i'm stating facts
I'm am a person of colour but why does my colour define me
My skin is just a part of me like colour on a canvas there's a bigger picture
I am not the colour of my skin
I'm me
And why is that so hard to understand
When did our value become our skin
If i'm black and they are white
Why am i treated like i've got no right
The colour i am isn't me
Why does no one understand
To be seen as something other than right
I'm human not paper
Dipped in the wrong colour
but black isn't a colour its a shade
so what am i if not just human
I don't want to be name called and looked down upon
Have my colour become an insult
And hate myself because i'm
Not white

he's a masterpiece
  of old regrets and
  lonely nights

she's his picasso --
  painting his undoing
  with every stroke

her fingers careless
  as they brush against
  his pale skin

when she leaves again
  he plucks on his guitar
  a melancholy tune

he's a masterpiece
  of old sadness and
  lonely solitude

If I could wake up tomorrow
And be someone new
I’d hope to be someone
That didn’t care about you

A person who wakes up
And smiles at the sun
Not a recluse
That hides from fun

Someone who looks in the mirror
And values themself
Not insecure
Loathing herself

I wish to be someone
Free as a bird
Not someone who cares
What others have heard

But when I wake up
I will still be me
Hoping and wishing
One day I’ll be free