I am the universe.
I am abstract.
I am a collection of nothings and everythings.
My very being is a quantam equation,
Drowned in emotion
while being completely numb
Longing for a good life
and also for the sweet serenity that is death.
I am not a solid structure
but rather a blur of colour and motion
Whose beauty is undermined by many
and cast out by most.
But still I stay true to my own colours,
even if I don't particularly fancy the painting.
My colours are vast
and individually very beautiful.
I am working on seeing them as they are--
blended and confusing and unclear--
and seeing that as beautiful.
I am abstract.
I am the universe.

I am the universe.
I am woven with the threads of existence
and infinity.
I am at my beginning,
small and undeveloped
with the capability for so much.
One day I will erupt
in a brilliant display of power,
displaying myself boldly and spectacularly
But for now I hold it within,
my potential growing and growing
until something within me happens just right
and I can truly blossom.
I will use my power to build myself up
until I don't have to try anymore.
They say I will get so big
that I will destroy myself,
crushing myself back down to nothing
To less than nothing.
But I think that's happened before,
because I am nothing at the moment
And nothingness has never been so valuable.
I am woven with the threads of existence
and infinity.
I am the universe.

I am the universe.
I am beautifully unaware of myself
while creating something even more fantastic
Than my destiny tells me I can be
Because I am nebulae and galaxies
and starts and planets
and vast expanses of so-called "emptiness"
That is really filled
with gorgeous, deep, silken black.
I am the stars aligned,
the pure work of billions of subatomic particles
buzzing about frantically with their errands,
not even knowing what those errands are--
Just knowing that what they are doing
is what they must do.
I am the miracle of life
and the beauty of death
and the thrill of everything in between.
I am the mystery of what comes before birth
and the fear of what comes after dying.
I am the cosmos looking at its own reflection
Observing itself
Knowing itself
Being itself
I am massive, yet so, so small
but I question my worth
every time I dare to glance at the fibers
That hold together the fabric of my being.
I am eternity;
I am the clock which sits unnoticed
until I am needed,
or when boredom strikes and I become a last resort
To lessen the loneliness.
But the truth is,
I am loneliness.
I am a broken heart,
my blood seeping into all that is.
I am the tears welling in the eyes
of the kid down the street
Who has no choice
but to take a blade to his skin
just to breathe again.
I am his breath.
I am the ground beneath him
and the sky above him.
I am the face he sees in the mirror;
I am the hatred he sees when he looks at it.
I am the love in his soul
The blood in his veins
The scent of his skin
The beating of his heart
I am his heart.

I am the universe.

Creativity
is not measured by how many
love songs there are on the
radio
Writing one more
does not make love songs
unoriginal
Nor does it make it
bad to like love songs
All it does
is put a new love song
into the world

Creativity
is not making something
that has never been made before

Creativity
is making something.

And if you hate love songs
then go ahead
tell me they're not original
tell me they're too mainstream
tell me there's no other subject these days
tell me how that annoys you.
But don't tell me
that making something
isn't worth celebrating

Don't tell me
creativity is only what
you think it is

There is a girl
on a bench in the park
at the edge of the town.
She is young.
Little ringlets of copper brown
frame her delicate face.
Wide eyes of the purest sky blue
scan the trees.
She is looking for something.

She stands up
and straightens her skirt.
Her legs shiver,
and her socks grow heavy with water.
Nobody is around to question her,
about why she's out in the snowstorm.
She wouldn't answer anyway;
she's too focused.
She is looking for something.

Cautious steps now.
The ground is slippery with ice.
Her boots do not hold
because they are too worn from walking.
Finally she reaches it,
the edge of the sidewalk.
She peers intently into the grove.
Her blue eyes narrow.
She is looking for something.

All is silent,
except for the flurries of snow.
Before long there is a blanket on the ground.
It is thick powdery snow.
It collects in her boots and on her scarf,
and she shudders as the ice
presses against her porcelain skin.
But she is silent, focused.
She is looking for something.

After a moment,
she steps back and sighs.
There is a slight smile on her lips.
Her nose is red and drippy with cold.
Still, she is silent,
though not by choice.
She has no one to talk with.
It's barren.
She has found what she was looking for.

What it was I can't say.
Either I don't know,
or it's not my place,
or you could ask her yourself.
But there is a girl
on a bench in the park
at the edge of town,
and she is happy.

Once I looked in the
mirror and I saw
myself, but not
what I wanted to
see.
My reflection is
distorted, but I look
the same as in any
other mirror or
poem or
drawing and I am left to
wonder, is it the
mirror that is
broken or is it
me?
-ignis

It is strange, I
think, how insecure
clouds must
be; to always be
changing the
way that they
do.
They simply cannot
decide on which
form they
like best.
Or maybe they are
waiting for
us to
decide, because they don't
trust themselves with
big decisions like
how they have to be.
It must be awfully
hard for them to
determine all that just for
a little fall of
rain, maybe even one that
no one will
see. They must be so
conflicted inside, and maybe that's
what causes
lightning.

Oh, Summer,
Isn't it great how
you make people so
happy?
It must feel
wonderful.
All I do is
prepare them for
you and your
joy.

Yes, Spring,
I make people
happy, and yes,
that is very
important.
But without you,
they would not be
ready for my
sudden punch
of warmth and
it would hit them like
a truck.
So aren't you really the
more important one
here?

Oh, but I am but
the lonely whispers
of two conflicting times.
I am the last thoughts of
Winter, and I am just
hinting at your
arrival.
I say nothing
outright.
I am a coward, a lonely
star, and you are
the brave and
brilliant
sun.

My friend, if only
that was true.
I am welcomed at
first, but before long they
grow tired of me.
I am relentless, and
I desperately cling to
them in the hopes that
they will always
love
me.
Alas, my friend -
alas, it is not to be.
The tighter my
grip, the more they
wrest away from
me.
Praytell, Spring,
what is so
appealing about
Summer?

Your
your
your
your blithe
ignorance, I
suppose. Anything is
more appealing than
Spring.

everything is
crowded.

I'm not sure what's
real and what's
fake, or what's
good and what's
bad, or even why
I am still
here and not at
home and just
sleeping
relaxing
letting
go.
Instead I am
here.
I am trapped between
four men and
three strollers and
too many
cowboy hats to even
remember how many there
actually are.
All I can
focus on is how
absolutely
terrified I
am and trying not to
disturb anyone but
also trying to
get enough air in my
lungs that I don't
suffocate.

But that's really
really
really
hard to do
especially now
especially here

So please excuse
me for a
minute if I
make myself
small
or if I start to
whimper
or if I
cry a little
bit.
It's nothing I can
help.
But the worst thing about
it is that when
you're afraid of
parties or
stepping into the pantry or
the city bus,
it sometimes feels like there's
nothing you can
help.

And trust
me when I
say that
almost nothing is more
painful than being
useless.

There is just something
about your eyes.
Something hypnotic,
refreshing.
I don't know what it is.
But every time I look into them
everything is erased,
everything but you
everything but me
everything but us
and isn't that beautiful?

I am the rat.
There are always
roads that I can take,
and always
new places to be explored.
I am compact,
and I can
fit wherever I
want to go.
There is always
a surplus of food and
I eat well.
But sometimes,
the food is poison
and I am left with only
my dying breaths.
Some passages lead me only to
being hit with a broom.
I am called
filthy and disgusting.
But still
I find myself
smiling when I
wake because
it's **** well worth it being the rat.
-ignis

The rigging is
set, Captain.
Brown rope, aye,
secured tightly - aye,
can be adjusted.
Here, I'll stand on this
chair and see how
it's looking - aye,
Captain, it's proper
tight now, it will
function just
well enough, sir.
Oh, Captain, the sea;
I can see the
stormy waves,
black and
turmoiled. Aye,
Captain, all rigging
set. All hands on
deck, yessir.
We can't very well set
sail with a chair on the
deck, Captain.
Permission to kick
it away?

Depression is an eternal sunrise.
Everything is entangled in black for a very long time,
and then the horizon flickers
and you can notice a beautiful rosy glow
as the sun peaks its sliver of a crest
over the mountaintops.
But it is just out of reach.
Sure, it's beautiful,
but it's more dark than anything.
Cold.
Unfinished.
Depression traps you forever
in that one moment
before the sun is risen
and before night has fully ended.
There is an end in sight
but it is not close enough.
No, it is never close enough.

As it turns out,
there is more to falling
than just the fall.

There is, for example,
the thought.
The, "what the hell" kick of
adrenaline that keeps your
engines running.
The, "make it stop" sort of
desperation that sends you
somewhere beautifully
terrible.
The thoughtlessness of
being pushed that is somehow so utterly
unforgivable but still exhilarating.

There is the actual falling.
S
t
r
a
i
g
h
t
d
o
w
n
or sometimes
s
  l
    o
       p
         i
           n
             g
and even sometimes
f l a t  o n  t h e  g r o u n d.

There is the flight.
w                                                         d
       i                                              a
             n                                 e
                  g                       r
                       s              p
                               S
like a bird's and waiting for
the air to lift you
up so your feet don't touch
the soil.

The darkest part of flight is
landing.
It can be as peaceful as
the baby being
d
r
o
p
p
e
d
from the stork's
beak but it can also be
painful and
sudden and
harsh. But the main thing about hitting the ground is
your fall is over and
who wants happiness to
end?

and then there you are,
blinding in your brilliance
perfection in your lilting voice
grace in your smile
and then there you are,
stunning in your superiority
beauty in every facet
joy in your eyes
and then there you are,
a flawless gem of idealism,
romancing me with hope where there's none,
and daring me into the darkness.
and then there i am,
succumbing to your sin
as through the blackness i fall.

I hate it when you
start to think about
breathing.
There's nothing wrong with
breathing,
of course,
it's just that once the
thought enters your
head, suddenly
breathing
just becomes so
strained
manual
hard.
You start taking
in too
much air, or is it too
little?
And little by little,
everything just seems like it's
drowning.

If your pain is so real
then what is mine?
Your demons are tangible
Your demons are the ones that
push the weaker kids into lockers
Your demons are the ones that
open your heart
only to raid it and leave it bleeding
My demons - my demons do not exist
in the face of yours
Mine are silent
(Except in my head)
My demons scream at me
They tell me about being too fat (or too skinny)
or too stupid (or too pretentious)
or being too much of a disappointment
Your demons prove that you are worth fighting over
Mine prove that there is nothing to fight for
If your pain is so real
then what is mine?

If your cuts are too shallow
then what are mine?
At least yours will fade in time
Mine are digusting
lingering
They remind me constantly of how I have failed
of how I will inevitably continue failing
My skin doesn't sting
(If I squeeze my eyelids hard enough)
You need yours to hurt more
To remind yourself what pain feels like
instead of numbness
I'm so much less romantic.
I need to remind myself what punishment feels like
I deserve to be punished
You do not deserve to be punished
You do not deserve your scars to be permanent
but I do
If your cuts are too shallow
then what are mine?

If you are human
then what am I?
Because if your mistakes are what count
then I have made enough to spare
And if it's your torment that decides it
send me a membership letter
At least tell me I'm something
Because what I have seen is not part of a competition
What I think
should not be compared with what you do
My impact
should not be compared with yours
Making a struggle into a prize
That makes me inhuman
So if it's pain that makes you real
then at least act like I have a ******* heart
And don't tell me that
I don't know what it's like.
If you are human
then what am I?

I have spoken to
the birds.
I have asked them about
how they know where
it is that they're going, and
every one of them revealed that
they do not.
They tell me that they just
flap their wings and
fly away and they don't need to
think about where they're
going because they rely on
themselves enough to be
assured that they'll end
up right where
they need to be.
But how do you
know where you need
to be, I asked
them, and they told
me once again that
they do not.
They just rely on their
wings to take
them there.
I wish I could have been
brave and spread my
wings and fly where
I need to go as the
birds left.
But instead I
stayed behind.
At first I was
ashamed of
myself for not
following suit but then
I realised that
maybe the reason I didn't
fly was because I was
already where I
needed to
be.
-ignis

truth
i miss you.
you were my breath.
you kissed me,
and it was like
a thousand butterflies
ignited in my chest
and my lungs provided the oxygen
that fed the flame.
your lips
were the wind beneath their wings
the wind beneath mine
i would be lying if i said
that i don't miss
flying.

lie
i hate you.
i never loved you in the first place
the same way that you never loved me.
i want you to feel the same pain
that i have
i want you to know that you are
the throbbing of my head
because i got drunk off of your lips
and i can't ******* escape the hangover
you were a propellor
and i was just a curious fish
who came too close and you destroyed me
i was happiness
and you were depression

truth
you assaulted me.
you ***** me
you tore out my heart
and you spat on it
because you knew how much i hated the feeling
of being worthless.
your head was the hunger
and i was your ******* cigarette
you burned me
and it made you feel good
and as much as i hate to say it
it made me feel good too.
you were addicted to the ash in your throat
i was addicted to the burning of my body
destroyed until i was nothing but your plaything
and i still ******* love you for it.

lie
i regret everything
the i love you's
the i'm sorry's
the hello's
i wish i never let you back into my heart
after you pillaged everything we could have been
i hated it
i hated the way it made me feel
when you waltzed right back in
after you betrayed me
i didn't feel any comfort
i didn't feel anything
but hatred

truth
we were a beautiful calamity
a collision of red and blue and white
blood, sky, and ice
that i saw once you knocked me down
and i couldn't help but stare
at the heart-shaped clouds
and think it was a message
that we needed to stay together
you were my destruction
you were my self hatred
you were my bullet
and i was your ******* blood
coursing excitedly through your heart
as you watched me writhe and die
when my heart gave out
from loving you too much.

The next time you
run, be assured I will
come after you.
Because I know that
last time I
didn't and how that
stung in your
heart like a dagger.
Unfortunately, there is
something about the way you
run. You trap me in a
labyrinth and that I can't hope to
navigate, and the way you
sprint so desperately
away makes me
think that you don't want
me to find
you.

I recall such a freezing winter morn
The sun erasing the stars in the skies
With frozen flower buds all weak and worn
Their snowy cloaks a glassy paradise

Back then the clouds felled shining bright white flakes
That shattered on the ground in sparkling gleam
And buried in the banks were garden snakes
Encapsulated in their icy streams

When standing right beside me, there was you
Warm breath creating soft clouds in the air
Now tears drip from work done and left to do
Your blood has dyed deep red the snow once fair

For back then there was life and hope and zen
And deaths like yours reclaim those things again

Wake up
I need you
Read, 12:45 am

no you don't.
you don't need me.
you never have.

had i ever been worth anything to you
you would have fought to keep me
you would have stopped her from punching me
you would have stopped me when i attempted again
you wouldn't have made some ******* excuse

*******.
you don't need me
you never have

It has been
forever since I have been
asked, "How are
you doing?"
But that's
okay with
me, because I am
fantastic. I am
brand-new, and
shiny, and just
lovely, so thank you for
not asking because I am
proud that I can
say it for
myself.

Tick, tock, tick, tock
Every hour chimes the clock
Reminding us of slipping time
And hours long forgotten.

Tick, tock, tick, tock
My every breath feels out of stock
The air is cold and eery
As I lay your corpse in cotton.

Tick, tock, tick, tock,
My heart is a cold black rock
Whose face is gone, all washed away
Now we both are rotten.

I wish that I had been willing
to save myself

You are the reason I want to die
And also the reason I want to keep living.
It's not fair.
No one should have that much power.

I know why
I flinch at your
touch
I know why
I shiver every single
time you say my
name
I know why
even the mention of
seeing you makes
my heart
swell.

I am cold
I am dark
I am hostile
I am alone
You are warm
You are bright
You are open
You are home.

When I am alone
No one is there to notice me
And there is no me to be noticed.
I am free.
Free from the constructs
that have only broken me down
Free from judgemental faces
Black eyes boring into my soul
Because I'm not good enough.
Not when I'm alone.
When I am alone
I am the only one there who can hurt me.
I am the only one who has the chance
And I am the only one who takes it.

Why can't I cry?
I need the pain
I need to feel
I need the release
Why can't I cry?