the words you speak send razors through my chest into empty spaces between ribs where butterflies once use to live and where a heart would beat at the sound or sight of a dream i wanted. you moulded me into a woman too sickly filled with poison that could do nothing but wait and cry, wait and cry, waiting on the arms that matched your false superhero cape. its not fair how you use recycled words and i always fall for them. you've knocked the wind out of my chest and left me crawling for air on my knees. you have made me feel like i didn't matter, or that i wasn't worth the time or commitment, and instead of a soul you saw me as a body. you have taken the appeal of life out of me and have taught me what it feels like to heal without passion or interest. you rooted a hatred of myself inside me so deep i would have to scoop out my organs upon finding it. i give my applause for you putting yourself above me because that shows self appreciation; i just wish you could appreciate the butterflies a little bit more.

-mixed thoughts series

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there is something about the way the trees dance in the wind and how that exact same breeze grazes your skin, makes you shiver, causing you to crawl under your blankets to warm you at night and to shield you from everything bad. there is something miraculously wonderful and beautiful about that. you listen to your favourite bands but they can't seem to explain why this is happening, and yet we are all just stars in a galaxy and once the light dies out no one will flinch except the hearts that we have touched the most and i guess thats why hearts will oddly skip a beat at 4am on a saturday morning. lungs will die out; skin deteriorating but thats okay because i'm sure there is something beyond what our eyes can see. like when people make bucket lists when really they are subliminally planning out near-by life goals. and unfinished novel is processed so you can pick up the pen one day and write again. write until your hand starts bleeding, your heart stops beating. funny how people always complain about the noises cars create and they never stop to hear the sound of trees, brushing leaf against leaf in a summer breeze. there is nothing poetic about a messy room although i wish it could be- i would use it as a metaphor to show that my life is changing slowly. new rims on cars, new boys, new city lights to gaze upon, 12 am walks by yourself with lonely cigarettes and empty words lost in a fire raging society of *** and abuse but i can't seem to put my finger on who. fake tattoos and dark purple bruises. quiet nights yet you feel like the walls caving in. extreme voices in your head. disorders are not poetic but if it brings true awareness i hope one day it will be. do not mask your scars, instead count them. eventually you will die and old soul and smiling child and your stars the remain will continue to shine on for you.

-next i will count the planets

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i don't think i would be alive right now if it wasn't for art. art has kept me sane as not just a thing we create, but as a person. because in reality, art is a person, right? i mean, its you and me and the things we like and dislike. the art of poetry and words. the art of painting, drawing. the art of moving on; of falling in love. the art of a chord on a piano and the found of an f sharp on the violin. the art of patience, dignity. sadness, love, hike, realism- its all art. the world in my eyes is a canvas slowly being made into a new form of art.
today, i was in downtown toronto on a school trip with a couple of friends. we were surrounded by vast and tall, tall buildings, and it made me wonder that anything and everything is art. a hand to hold at 4pm. the way skin glides and rubs against skin is deep and intimate art. ugliness is art, for ugly souls have one hell of a harsh character. the rain is art, and so are the tress and churches and its values, our bodies and souls, a piano and sakura trees and essentially all their is - art.
beauty, hope, sadness, love - in the best and worst of people. how extraordinary.

-art.

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