she's been staring at blank pages
tapping her pencil against the desk
shaking her foot
she's been staring at blank pages
lost for inspiration.

she's started to cry
late at night
sometimes in the day
she's got a weight on her chest
she overwhelmed with emotions.

She's been filling up those blank pages
pencil swishing back and forth
paintings
drawings
poems
stories
each tear drop
a new chapter
every sniffle
a stroke of the brush

overjoyed to produce lovely work
dying from the pain
loathing the necessity
that artists
need to be miserable
in some way
or another
to be great

He's slowly fading away
deeper into the dark void
He shouts my name, screaming, kicking and thrashing about,
arms outstretched towards me
I try to save him i really do
But he's falling deeper now
growing smaller and smaller by the second
His face blurs through my teary face
If he dies you will die with him, my subconscious screams at me
but it was to late,
When reality hit me.
When i came to realise that it was not he who was falling, but me.
Deeper and deeper i fall into the void, arms outstretched towards him..
although who is he?
He is no one but from my own fantasy
It was all imaginary
His face
His arms
His voice
His existence
Everything
The only thing that is real is that i'm falling deeper and deeper
I've lost my mind they told me,
I smile through my teary face, as i reach closer to death,
They were right, i did lose my mind, i listened to to mind and not my heart, so now ill pay the price;.....
With my life

I remain silent . . .

but I'm afraid

that . . .

I have been

Silent

for so long



that I must speak on the inside

but on the inside I can only scream




These screams are so loud

it hurts

and I am afraid that

I have busted my ear drums

and can no longer hear myself anymore,

inevitably stuck in an endless silence, unaware that

I am hardly alive anymore

The crimson on your petal has lost its aesthetic appeal,
Once smoothly textured, you’ve become prickly,
One touch that could make medicine ill,
Bloom they say like the flower you are,
Regressing back to a seed only dilutes your potential by far,
If you were a planet, you would be called Venus the reluctant star,
What happened to the passion that runs skin deep in your hue?  
Your thorns express the type of painful beauty,
Only those that are admired from afar can do.

Indeed the light that shined on your peers,
Will find its time to shine on you,
But patience is only a virtue if the outcome flourishes,
Into the type of majestic beauty,
Only a great late bloomer can do.

When the mirror shatters,
What you reflect to society,
No longer matters,
Because the construction one,
Has built upon themselves,  
Is now on the floor,
Cracked into pieces of shattered fragments,
And now what you were then is now no more,
Now the only piece you have left,
Is the peace in your soul.