How hard it is to just feel like waterfalls are furiously trying to break loose out of your body, like as if your body was a glass being filled forcefully to the brim and there's no more emotion to hold in left for you to appear composed and collected for what is left of the day.
The day passes by painfully slower by the minute and you feel the water filling your veins from your toes and your stomach and then your lungs and you have to escape.
And then you've hardly made it to the end of the day and finally you get to be alone.
You finally get to have those thoughts swimming around your charcoal brain embrace you claustrophobically tight and the water spills everywhere, making a giant mess.
It is hard as **** to hold your tears for days, to feel hell wanting break lose inside of you, to feel how you slowly begin drown without getting soaked at all.
But I swear nothing gets harder than dealing with the constant pain inside your chest, beating against your ribcage in detached and sharp pieces over and over and you just want it to stop.
You just want it to ******* stop.

It gets to a point where I have made myself so minuscule, I can't seem to fill all your empty corners and that's when you look at me just like every ordinary thing in the world and I subconciously shrink further into myself

How wonderful would it be if I could twirl around on my toes like I always craved to do since I was a few thousand days old?
How fantastic would it be if I could paint a masterpiece as big as the solar system and add the details of every star out there, even the shooting ones?
How phenomenal would it be if I could glide beautifully on thick beds of glistening ice while music invades my ears?
How outstanding would it be to take a bite of golden victory as the anthem of my country performs along in the background?
How bizarre would it be to skate my bow on rosined chords and shape ethereal harmonies?
I wake up every morning full of wonder, puzzling, wanting to try everything there is on Earth and to savor gold as I live every illusion there can be.

A little part of me breaks when I catch you leaving through your eyes to some place you'll never tell me about,
leaving your body living dead
and me to wonder what to do because I want so desperately to be your home like you are mine.
No matter what I do,
I don't feel like home
and that's maybe because I am not a safe place to live in.
My windows have been shattered
and someone stole the door,
the walls have been ruined with spray paint
and droplets of water spill through the cracks.
But when you're here with me,
it stops raining
and the broken crystals from my broken window dance with the sunrays,
making beautiful light art,
the door-less entrance lets butterflies along with pollen from beautiful flowers in
and the spray paint looks like it's fading.

We are critical.

We find flaws in
everything we see
because nobody
wants to write
about perfection,
even though sometimes
we wish we could just stay
staring into that
unblemished surface.

2. We are never satisfied.

We live our lives upon
mountains of
scrunched up
bits of refill and
ideas we gave up
trying to
express.

3. We never forget.

We write words about
eye contact made
three months ago
that we replay over
and over in our minds
even though it
stopped
being relevant.

4. We are fickle.**

Our emotions flash
from one
to the other
like strobe lighting that
disorientates us
until we feel as if
the world
will never be still.

5. We are exposed.

We don't know how
to keep our feelings
to ourselves so
we'll write them
down for
you to find
'accidentally'.

6. We are vulnerable.

We wear our
hearts on our sleeves
and won't lift a
muscle to fight back
if somebody tries
to break it
because we thrive
from the pain.

7. We will never stop.

We will never stop
feeling and
we will never stop
hurting,
we will never stop
breaking and
bleeding and
loving
even though the cycle
is endless
and we know what's
coming next.


We are addicted
to agony,
but we agonise
for the art.