Why is it so easy to complain,
To express my sorrow in a story,
Make my pain something beautiful,

But...

When I'm happy,
Which is a rare delight,
I can't find the words,
My mind goes blank,
And once that feeling goes away...
It's all forgotten

Why do I bear my sadness like armour,
Why can't I hold onto happiness,
And keep it from blowing away,
Like glittering ashes in the wind.

I hate the way I look
I hate the way I sound
But my broken feeling are bound
I hate the body in the mirror
I hate the tears running down
The end of me is coming nearer
Sorry I didn't stick around

You told me I couldn't,
so I did.

The world lies serene from up here,
bright blinding lights
seem dim,
people like insects, crawling
insects like dust, clinging
and scuttling to their dark corners.
A place above all
where I can forget.
As I watch my feet swing
over the edge,
I'm not scared nor sad,
not thrilled either,
Just am.

The colours of the world once danced for me,
But now they stand, all grey, though if they moved I’d barely see
Music painted dreams that nourished my soul,
But now it drowns the turmoil I can't control

they say don’t judge a book by its cover
but sometimes
you start reading
and the words just
won’t resonate with you
they won't
make you think
or feel

but remember
you don’t have to
force yourself
to finish
a bad book

Lips a shade of softest pink,
eyes a brilliant cerulean blue.  
I could get lost in your gaze,
forever drifting in the feeling of you.

The story of two people,
sitting in the gentle night.
They hold their hands
without impatient fear.
Maybe this is true intimacy?

Too many plans, too many
subtle strategies
in the hiding place—
everything to avoid
the pain after.

Longing for what could be,
we say goodbye
to the now,
that leaves so quickly.

Between words,
taming the common confusion,
we will never come any closer
to another human being.

Celebrating the quiet feeling
of comprehension,
absorbed by the paradox of facts—
above differences, imposed tattoos.

We are sitting in the deep,
friendly night,
holding entwined hands
with an ephemeral moment
of fulfilled, trusting intimacy.

What if,
one day,
you just can't
anymore.

A flicker.
Is it?
No,
a spark.

A seed of wrong.
Then red blooms
behind my eyes,
a feeling feral, clawing up.

It builds,
a storm front gathering,
pressure in my chest,
a tightening vise.

Words become weapons,
each syllable
sharpened,
aimed.

Lightning.
Pure,
white,
hot.

Striking,
searing,
leaving only scorched earth
behind.

A force unleashed,
uncontrollable,
and then...
the quiet hum of aftermath.

Too late.