I told them i wasnt the one they should fear,
and honestly i feel so bad that i even ended up here.

Its like i didnt ask to be told.
I just was. And that grew so old.

I cant fathom a day spent unwell, and yet if you looked at the world i live in, you couldnt tell.

I remember when the words would flow.
Like a boat my thoughts would tow along the heart i felt before. Once i told myself i had to let it go, i devoured it and wanted more.

I ate the sadness and the glee,
so desperately trying to be free.

And now i wake up more confused,
because instead of devouring the monsters,
instead i let them loose.

Away from me, but towards me. They chased me, and i chased me.

My brain formed a dichotomy, between who i thought i was and who i was to be.

Naturally karma bites you in the ***
as ive learned scraping scars up from my past.

Todays bitters become tomorrows worries,
and my file cabinet of memories pile up high of sorrys.

I poured gasoline on my person of the past,
i said sorry and watched the flames eviscerate her to ash.

I didnt shed a single tear,
i laughed in the face of her greatest fear.

Then, i pulled up a chair, whislting... i toasted a marshmallow that smelled as sweet as the burning skin which filled the air.

Within the last dying flames from the fire,
i soon found out the person id killed had so much to admire.

But by then it was much too late,
i couldnt let her last be filled with hate.

So i gathered her ash so charcoal black,
i opened the soil and planted her with awe then, i stepped aback.

A tree she became right before my eyes,
and with that... i knealt down broken, i knew she felt me apologize!

Its been so long since i put my words on paper, why?
I find every sentence I want has a synonym in every emotion.
Every swell of imagery has been ruined perpetually by my burning out.
By my stuffing down.
By secluding the dark into a tiny dimension with a haphazard sign,
all pictures left my mind and all that is and all that could be, stayed.
I worried what others cared for, i forgot i cared too.
Got so wrapped in the world inside my world, i forgot how to draw.
All colors have escaped through crevices i thought i filled. And to imagine more seemed such a task.
To imagine anything but hollow seems against my own moral code these days. I ask myself what hurts and then.
I only see words. I hear the sentences without beauty. Just in that, it is.

The epithet for you? Oh god lemme just use this poem to describe. The incantation I will use is “aberrant.”
God I sound like an english teacher but I will pursue. Let’s begin....

Aberrant:
You, love,
are aberrant.
unusual.
yet beautifully,
and might I add intoxicatingly imperfect.

I can’t breathe enough of the air you reimburse on the world.

Your walls I wish to break down are naught to the cracking in my one you’ve taken a sledge to.

There’s always the one you save, and the one that saved you.

You, love...

Saved me in ways none could comprehend.

Thank you for you for the aberrant person you have become.

Painted Atelephobia

Inevitable is the oblivion afeard within celadon gardens.
In the center a cerise bloom reaches clouds with ruby fingertips. Not I will touch sunsets as she.


Click is the cardinal heel of white collars which soar in cerulean skies. Still I stand on russet boots stuck in mud. For the wings on my back have been clipped long before.

Aye is the color changing leaf. Not apace is she, yet still grows skillfully radiant. Evergreen bristles with no compare to her auburn tint which gracefully touches winds and sails the seas. A green of dark hue flies not so angelically.

Never will I be the shadow in your eyes, nor the dimples on your cheeks. Never will I stand from the crowd and bloom like her. Never will fly nor soar nor swim. Never will I be good enough for you.

What does it mean to live?
To be alive

Is it to have a life?
To breathe?
Air balloons constantly inflating?

To have a beating heart?
Or to bleed bright red?

Is it to blink?
To speak?

perhaps

"Living" isn't the space between birth and death.

perhaps

"Living" is breathing the air on highest hills?

To have a beating heart who yearns for love?

To bleed not only color but horrendous pain?

To blink tears for what the eye has seen?

To not only use the mouth to speak but to scream?

Maybe living isn't just life?

perhaps living is to

Love
Fear
Hate
FEEL