My fascination of words come from a deep place…
Shards of broken hopelessness,
Discarded in pieces, through metaphors
Seeking life within the lines of poetry.
Wanting to creep out of my soul,
From my veins through my fingertips…

I write for me.
My words are not for humanity…
There won’t be any prophesies scrawled across cave walls
Only fragments of my being,
Refracted in the images I paint on paper,
Printed in blood ink.

My words are release.
There are no pictographs or,
Phenomenon discoveries,
Veiled in my assortment of letters,
Etched in my broken rib cage of fragility…
Printed only out of desperation.

My fascination with words is contingent...
I put in bulks of fleshy bits of insanity,
And I secrete emotions,
Ravaged by war,
Because for some reason,
Pain is equivalent to beauty.

Sometime my words become selfish.
They bombard my mental cavity,
Asking so much of me,
I have to stop in the middle of the street
And write thoughts down
before I lose them.

My words consume me.
I think differently,
I feel differently.
Every sense is heightened in this state.
I lose myself in the worlds I create.
My words are my only escape.

My composure is just illusion.
A mastery to hide the confusion of,
Having to explain my babbling..'
Or why my heart is pounding..
Hands shaking...
Head spinning..
Palms sweating..
Panic attack brimming..
Because.. publicly speaking wasn't meant for me
I suffer from social anxiety,
And it is awkward and agoraphobic.

Call it paranoia
Or insanity.
Or both.
Because it is..

I will never be able to open up like,
"Normal" people do.
Even though I..
Want to..
Tell you,
I love you..
And need you..
And thank you..
But instead I..
Silently write my woes,
Things I wish i could say to,
Family, friends, and foes.

I use to see you in the sunlight.
Until the sun died,
Growing so dim,
The earth was forced to dwell,
In eternal night.

The sky blazed with angry stars.
Glittering and glinting with,
Malice and envy because they will never rest again.
Men would expect to much of them.
Making wishes on their fallen,
Leaving gaps in the sky open,
Hating the sun for being so selfish.

The earth becomes,
Cold and Ice blue.
Frozen.
Desolate.
A wasteland of hate.
And Plants wither and die,
Loathing the moon.

Chaos expels,
Gushing from the wounds.
Hurricanes, Oozes from gashes,
Tipped and ripped from its roots,
Because of the imbalance in the universe.

The sun went out like candle light,
From the winds that came from your lips
As you blew it out with a smile.
Leaving the world to die slowly.

Setting off wars,
Threatening extinction,
Causing epidemics,
Brewing disasters,
And Hunger...
Existence relies on your power.
But you are to ignorant to see it.
Everything revolves around you.
Everything suffers because of it too.

Miracles escapes your lips in the form of poetry,
And though kisses would also be pretty,
Nothing captivates me more,
Than when your soul,
Pours out of you like liquid misery.
A river of soul and history,
Do me the honor and quench my thirst.
Allow me to see you at your internal worst,
Because Externally and Internally,
All I see is beauty.

There is nothing more captivating than,
Blood ink and calligraphy.
As your words seeps into my skin
Imprinting on my mental cavity like tattoos from within,
A brand of paper that never gets old,
Sometimes its so intense, truth be told,
I hear you,
Even when your thoughts berate you into stunned silence.

Sometimes I just want to reach out and,
Grab onto the illusions that I store in that
Pandora's box in my mind,
Saving every bit of your broken perfection.
Your voice attack my emotions like an infection,
I become more battled-scared than I already am,
But I will endure your blood wars as much as I can,
Only a poet will know.
I exist only because of prose,
And pain, love and foes.

I am not a writer.
I am not good with words,
I cannot speak up for myself,
It is my pen that bleed words.
No amount of convincing can give me conviction.
No amount of clarification can make that distinction.
Please refrain from using titles.

I am not a writer.
I am just a dreamer,
Dreaming dreams of inverted galaxies
Where complexities are reduced to simplicity,
And maybe love wouldn't be so complicated.
I dream of a world where I'll be unchained and liberated,
Because currently freedom is hard to go by.

I am not a writer.
I am just another over thinker,
I stay up all night disassembling the world,
So I can put it back together.
Adding new features that I think will make it better
I get lost in thoughts, and day-mares, fantasies and others,
I obsess and I always suffer.

I am not a writer.
Though sometimes I am photographer,
Snapping,
Close ups and selfies of my terrible mind.
Giving glints of places you won't usually find,
All because I write sometimes.

I want to runaway,
Far into the oceans.
Into the abyss of waters,
The unexplored depts of
Undiscovered species of fish
And devouring monsters.

I want to runaway,
Maybe to Africa in the forests.
Where wolves, dogs and dragons roam.
Make a tent out of straw and mud,
And all it my home.
Spend the rest of my life alone.

I want to runaway.
Maybe to the snow clad- region of
The Himalayan mountains,
Or to the frozen poles of the earth.
Stand to the highest peaks,
Without any clothes
So my limbs can freeze ,
Till they look like plastic manikins.

I want to run away,
Take up permanent residence on mars,
Or the moon,
Or maybe on the sun.
Far away from earth as possible,
Because If I stay here,
You'll just be a village away,
A city away...
A country away...
Maybe a continent and it wont be enough,
I'll still spend each night thinking of you.

I want to runaway.
Maybe to another galaxy,
Maybe here exists parallel universe
Where I can escape.
One where there are actually super heros
That wear spandex and capes.
One where happily ever after's are real,
And you know exactly how I feel.

I want to runaway.
Escape this reality to wear stars align.
I would bend and twist,
Or manipulating time.
Abuse any available strength I can find,
Just to get you out of my mind.