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 May 2014 Kelsey Erin
Sinai
This isn't about love.
There's no point in romanticising me living on a couch.
Mom, I am so sorry, I can't come back again.
But I love you.
This isn't about love.
Maybe about karma.
What goes around steals your belongings and asks you back the key.
And my backpack is so heavy.
(How did I fit my life in there)
But my feet aren't tired yet.
Let's try Rotterdam
I hate that city but
This isn't about love.
 Mar 2014 Kelsey Erin
Cathyy
When i was 6, i wanted to be something i completely made up in my head.. A 'space ninja pirate undercover superhero with wizardry powers' of some sort, and so i became just that.

&When; i was 10, i grew out of that and grew into the idea of being just an 'ordinary girl' with ordinary clothes and ordinary hair, no extraordinary powers of any sort, and so i became just ordinary.

But when I was 12, i grew tired of being like everyone else. I wanted to create something original for myself. And so i took a pen and an old Disney notepad and wrote all my random daydreams down, and so i became a dreamer and that was that.

However, at 14. I started to care a little too much. Gave my heart away freely and brought myself cheap love. My hair was far too ordinary and my imagination was far too weird,
' if i don't start shaving now, by 16 i'll have a beard ' and so self conscious i became, and that was that for that year.

Now i'm at 16, and i'm starting NOT to care, my daydreams have got me this far and i embrace my messy hobo like hair.. It's tricky though.
'Cause if i were to be honest, i'd say this;;
At 16, i want to touch people with my words but not become a 'poet'
I want people to relate to my music but i don't want to be a musician
I want to get over my depression
But i dont want to feel perfect
I kinda want to run away
But at the same time i want to always have a reason to stay.
Personal, needed to emotionally vent#
My touch can start brush fires.
My fingers are ***** matchsticks,
the kind your mother warned about.

My petaled lips spark against yours
like flint against steel.

My volatile breath, an overcast of smoke
creeping from the belly of my throat.

My twisted tongue douses your chalky skin
with fuel, a gasoline spreading to your logged limbs.

I leave your organs to curdle,
and by morning glow,
you’re nothing but a burn victim.

— The End —