Within the starlight gaze
grow shrooms below
lightly decorating
the silent grove
filling a place of beauty
with a touch of mystery
and gently covering the dirt

i hate

this feeling

of         my head

pounding                      against my skull

        i hate

        looking at
     my
          deformed figure

      and thinking
                       i am not good enough

                                i
                hate
                                        my bones
                                        my smile
                                        my fingers
                                        my skin
                                        my shape
                                        my self

Crystalline shards, we are what we choose to be..
                                                            ­                            .
                                   ­                                                   .      .
     ­                                                                 ­               f     .                                                                ­                      
                                                                ­                        .   r
                                                               ­                    .   a      .
                                                                ­                           g .
                                                               ­                         m
                                      ­                                               .         e .
                                                               ­                   .  n        t    
                                                                ­                        s  .
                                    ­                                                       .
                                                               ­                       .
                                        ­                                                    .
           ­                                                                 ­        .         .
                                                               ­                           .
                                    ­                                                 .
                                                                ­                         .
                                                               ­                       .I'll  .
                                                        ­                        end up in      .
                                                       ­                     crumpled heap
                                                                ­     .  .   at my own feet.. ..

my head is filled with memories that are not my own

and colors that do not exist

i feel lost

and i miss certain things

that i know never occurred

i want so desperately

to relive - or live

these moments

that happened while

i was sleeping

I walk into school,
and find your unique Blue glowing outline amoungst
the average outlined people.
i lean on your locker
as you tell me how the last
episode of the walking dead ended.
as i listen to your unique voice
i taste buttered popcorn.

it wasn't an unusual event.

It wasn't till the day,
I walked into school,
And i saw you,
you were sick and your voice was raspy.
but my brain refused to accept,
that it was you.
because you were lacking a ring of colour.
and your voice tasted of caramel,
and not of buttery popcorn,
and i asked you where your,
colours went,
it wasn't till then did i realise,
that i was not normal.
and thats when i was told,
that i had synesthesia.

The asphalt warm from summer rain
The air stil crisp from that last storm
It bites our toes as we run barefoot
Our bodies melt and lose their form

We are now one, soaking up sunlight
In these old drunken London blocks
Our feet will flutter over bridges
As we touch flowers, trees, and clocks

Who fared about what he tomorrow
Today is  all we'll ever need
So we keep running- it's been hours
It makes no difference who is lead.

The white widow climbs
towards the crisp summit
                 Where the purple haze
                 Seeps off from the
                                   Northern lights which
                                   Shine bright up above
                                                   The many blue dreams
                                                   Of unhappy people.