how can a world,
that is already ashes,
burn me alive?
sprouts grow out my eyes,
icicles freeze along my ribs,
waves roar against my palms,
once my fingers touched Hades
i knew he was mine
his thrown- was mine
little did he know
this feminine body
that's how many people feel,
but if i'm not writing it
and you're not reading it
that doesn't mean i'm not feeling it.
and isn't this better?
that you know i'm choking?
would you rather me act content
and erase myself with white-out?
while i'm actually rotting behind my masks?
don't tell me not to write "sad" poetry
this how i express myself and my feelings
i want to run into your embrace
but if i took comfort in your disasters
we would destroy each other
we are both too far gone
Dear Journal, o1.o8.19
I'm discovering that i really have no idea who i am or what i am... isn't that interesting that i am me, but i don't know who that is.
Can you smell the peaches?
Because they are all I can think about-
i'm sure you have heard me say it before. but i just cant keep my head on straight.