Steady, filled with love, but painful.
Hot, scorching through the flesh of the dejected souls.
Tears...the acid we ooze from our closed eyes.
Eyes, everywhere, watching judging , comparing.

Comparing pain, comparing our dismal lives to one another.
The need to gain more pity just to make it through life easier.
Pity, the thing we never really wanted but welcome anyway, secretly hiding.
Feeding our pain to get more eyes, feeding their pain.
Sometimes we are toxic to each other, literally like two different acids trying to secretly lay waste to each other in one way or another.
  
But what happens when no one wins?
What happens when there is no victor?
Do we stop at a draw or save the battle for another day ?
mmm...

It was the day i realized that the dead could see me.
They screamed and moaned, shouting the names of the people they left behind.
It wasn't the screams that haunted me,
it wasn't the tears that saddened me.

Their eyes...hollow and no longer longing for the accomplishments that they hoped to achieve in life .
The grimly appearance as seen, wore no life, no light.
These made my heart gallop like a frightened horse in a winter storm.
but that was not the only thing that scared me.

..it was the thought as i looked into their eyes, cold and melancholy. Since i could see them, and stare into their lifeless mimicked vesicles was i too apart of the same ending...death?

Am i dead as well?

Have you ever stared into the mystery of a foggy night,
crows sit on the tree branches posing as black leaves,
daunting yet creative.
They stare into your soul from the distance using mist as a cover.

But everything about this night speaks a rare beauty,
dew drops from the mornings rain hang onto the tree branches, dancing and shinning like mother natures very jewelry.

They scatter among the branches,
one after another singing a song that only the wind can hear and carry.
The early night is on of the most alluring sights to see before the sun rises.

And so...
with the impending doom threatening to retire the darkness's beautiful parade.
The mist fades away into the clouds,
and the sun gives the jewels the light they need to shine.
And one by one, in the mid of day...
New stars and clouds are born,
from the beauty of the dark mysterious night.

Can you hear it ?
The rain and the thunder so chaotically blissful?
Would you dance with me ? Soaking our hearts together?
"But we'll get wet and catch a cold "
would you take that chance with me ?

He took off his shirt and hugged me close,
our hearts beating violently against each other. "Yes .."
And there we stood together bracing the storm, Not shaken by the thunder nor shivering from the cold.

I came into the calm of his life and made it chaotic ,
i shook the world he lived in,
and at times made it cold with the tears of my sadness.
But in the end it helped him become fruitful and healthy,
and he calmed the storm with the acceptance of its seemingly destructive intentions.

He held the storm with is warmth, he squeezed and caressed this chaotic girl, so that the storm only became a shower.
And so they began to dance
the sun and the lighting a mixture of confusion and clearness.

Mother

Always bearing the heavy hearts of her crying children.
Healing the wounds of the forgotten and lost.
Mending the bones of the injured soldiers.  But in the end we always take her for granted.

Like when you forget a pen without the paper, the tree without the dirt, the animals without a home.
Though we have love for her we beat her call her useless yell like an angry teen screaming i hate you when she unleashes her punishment. But she is still our mother, our womb, our world around us and we chip and scrap the pureness off her back to build ourselves ...and she lets us...crying and hurt shes there ....but like most mothers too old and beaten to care for their young one day she will only be a whisper in the wind. A memory of the past, and a simple thing we have always taken for granted, but with this misused love we are forever sorry.

- Malaya Mealy

Why do i write?
Do i write to only make my hands numb ?
Do i write to make myself feel important?
No, i write to tell my secrets.
I write to show those with eyes how i feel.

Writing is the fictional person...
there to comfort me when im all alone.
When i am so isolated the only person i can talk to is the world around me, the birds echo my words back to me like jabber jays.
I talk to the trees that allow my words swirl through the leaves.
I talk to the squirrels, tell them stories as they take care of business.

Writing is everything to me...
Its how i show love, its how i make love..
Slow and deep straight to the heart.
There are no rules,
no laws on what to say how to say it.

I write to help flowers grow
I wrie to open my eyes when im feeling closed.
I write to pierce into hearts of people like me.

I write to show the truth of myself,
and the world around me as i see it...

Full of color and wonders never thought about before.
Full of life and pain, full of the world that i have taken into myself...