I only write when I'm sad
Does that make me mad?
When I wish to be dead
And all these holded tears are shed
I turn to poetry and suddenly life's not as bad

believe me when i say
that these scars
are not a reminder of you
believe me, these scars
are a reminder
of how deep my love can be

It’s not you, it’s me. I know we’ve been going strong for quite sometime now but to be honest, I’ve found myself very unhappy with who I’ve become. I know we’ve gotten immensely comfortable with each other but in comfort, there is no growth. So I need to start taking risk. I need to start coloring outside of the lines because it has the potential to be something magnificent and beautiful. And if it isn’t, that ok too. Because chaos doesn’t always have to lead to madness, for there is truth in chaos, and that is what I want to find; my truth, my voice, my story.

I’ve held myself back because of this fear that I am not good enough, that I don’t have what it takes; that I don’t actually have anything important to say. But there’s something inside of me; something strong and powerful that wants to be heard. So who am I to cage that in? Look, I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t afraid, because to be honest, I’m terrified. But I think I need to live in this fear for a while to really understand what I’m capable of. I need to push myself and expand the dimensions of who I am to be able to see what I can accomplish.

I’ve been so focused on not failing that I stopped trying. I found solace in your presence and made excuses to not writing. But I can’t be that person anymore. I’m sorry Writer’s Block, I need to set myself free.

Hey, my love on a far comet,
It's a golden sun kissed 7:42
I'm eating figs, bruise purple,
Plucked from the fridge,
Dipped deep in you.

Hey, my cosmic queen of hearts,
I've been an ocean since peach cloud 8:00
Full of oysters, strange deep gardens
Growing for you,
Eager to wait.

Hey, my bourgeois madam,
It's a bit past 8:15
I'm hearing birds, chirping blue,
And holding you warm,

Within this dream.

I know the toothless women
Who crumple on the streets
The rain bleeds through their cardboard,
The cold drips through their feet

I know the dying children
With anaesthetic arms
The angels crowd around them
With time that burns their palms

I've hugged the brainwashed gangsters
With money drenched in blood
I've heard their broken weeping
While digging up the mud

I've seen the starving faces
Of the tired girls at home
The broken, hectic psyches
That eat them to the bone

I know the burning poets
With a desperate thirst for life
The need for finding soulmates
That pierces like a knife

There's weary public servants
Who risk their lives for good
And prove compassion every day
Yet stay misunderstood

Human love is buried
Beneath the plastic weight
Of angry allegations
And a world that feeds off hate

These people may be messy,
But they're beautiful and real
With hidden dreams and secrets
And ability to feel

We have a place to run to
With lights of peach and gold
Where all the weight is lifted
And all our tales are told

We live in total freedom
So safe beneath the moon
And though it seems ambitious
Our dreams will save us soon

And I have died
softly
a million deaths -
drowning,
bleeding,
choking.
And yes, I remembered you.
I have found you
in the pictures,
in the screams
of broken tables
in the ghosts
and in the glass ceilings...
You were with me
every time
I died.

Inside this room.
Inside this ***** room of mine.
Which I've been told to clean many times.
Holds countless lies and secrets.
Of which I'm not to part with.
If I do I lose myself to the madness.
I'm not that strong a person to cope with.
I've cleaned this room time and time again, but the madness is hard to withstand.
I live and breathe inside this room of mine.
To remind me of my heartless crimes.
It keeps me in tune with myself.
Who dares to enter this room of mine will look at it as a mess, but not with the value it holds.
So to all those who told me to clean this room of mine has to know it can't be done.
Not with the purpose it holds.