As you read the words,
I have written about,
The circles under my eyes,
The bruises on my skin,
Oh, all these stories,
Of my cold, little heart.

I wonder what image of me,
Shows up on the screen,
At the back of your mind,
In greyscale or in the filter fade,
As your lips mouth out,
The words that could never slip off mine.

I wonder if you think,
Of the words you have read,
Written from the tip of my pen,
Typed out from the keys of the alphabet,
Sung along to a four chord strum,
As you pause yourself from the occupied.

I wonder if my words,
Ever made you look back through the pages,
Of the books you have read,
And had you started on something new,
For people had words as skin,
And you needed quotes for tattoos.

Because a glimpse of the world,
Cease to exist as I sit in despair,
The contrast of a disability,
Is how I stay aware.

I may not see the bright blue skies,
Or the glowing stars that shines at night,
I still hear the rain as it claps on the ground,
And the voice of a man singing in delight.

Like water shall fall as if I were a cascade,
I may not see where I set foot,
But I can touch the stones called walls,
The softness of my shoes that helps me stay put.

I may not see the colour of your lips,
As some would say pink or close to wine,
But I do not care,
As I feel love when our lips sync and arms intertwine.

I am not a blind man,
But if I could walk a mile,
The land discovered shall be cherished,
Shall it be a journey worthwhile.

The ends of my hair used to brush,
The lowest point of my back,
Yet the highest point of my cheeks.
Now it shall grow no longer than my wings.

As for the different pair of hands,
That shall linger through the strands of my hair,
With no worries of getting cuts,
From the razor-sharp tangles you have left behind.

I woke up early today,
Before the sun rays could kiss,
The surface of my eyelids.

A canvas painted with,
256 levels of the colour,
That fills my mind.

The sea consist of the,
Lightest hue named felicity,
And the darkest called melancholy.

I woke up early today,
To a colour that soothes my pain,
And the colour to causes it too.

I am the dark,
I am the sea,
I sit in silence,
Through the cinematic breeze.

Visions of the aesthetic,
The mentalism of fear,
A lovely lullaby,
The nyctophobia gear.

I am an art piece,
Painted in black, grey and white,
Kept in the archive of the dismissive,
On spacious 104-8C.

I am strong.
Eat, sleep and repeat this every morning.
A prescription given to me by the open platform of a screen.
I followed the instructions,
Of the innocence.

I had lived the day that was supposed to be,
Yesterday, today and tomorrow.
Lived, loved and laughed.
But I've been broken one too many times,
I'm still impaled by shots of arrows.

I can't hold myself anymore,
I'm nothing but debris.
I question "who the **** told me to take this prescription?"
Because I'm dying inside,
I'm dying for someone to save me.

I am strong.*
Words that shivers down my spine as I cry to sleep.
A deception of strength I have hammered,
Into my head
And onto my knees.