I wait for someone to find what I’m hiding,

I want to feel the warmth of someone’s hand on my shoulder,

all I know is the weight of their hatred.

I dread the ticking seconds,

yet somehow, tomorrow always seems brighter.

I crave to toast to victories I’ve carved from bone,
everything tastes like burnt birthday cake.

My hands itch to create, to pull worlds from the dust,
but I’m too tired to sleep and too tired to wake,

half-dreaming, always on the edge of awake

I want my words to pierce someone’s soul,
But I’m met with silence, performing to rows of empty seats.

I just miss the dry feeling on my cheeks.

I’ve accepted:

none of my fantasies

were ever well planned to come true.

To tear someone apart.

To make you sick

knowing that there’s nothing you can do.

I used to create worlds from door creaks,

Watch dust grains dance in front of the curtains.

I searched for my kindergarten teacher’s perfume

in every moment,

tried to see everyone’s soul.

But I never got the birthday cake I wanted

Who cares how I cried last night

how i typed i want to die

knowing I’d still need to unload the dishwasher next morning.

Who cares about my stupid poem?

The bus driver doesn’t ask

about the battle it took to leave the house today.

Every step feels like dragging the sun across the sky

How is it fair to live with such fire inside,

yet feel so cold

Is there a way out

or a way in

I can feel my knees weaken

blood tingling

at my fingertips

One dare to create

took the risk

met the insane

heard the song

is there a way out

or a way deeper in

should i break

all my bones

to sing my song

why do i shed

tears

why kneel to the king

I checkmated once

feel myself rotting under my skin

sick of clothing myself in this mortal

Wasting one to become

everything

why is this

thin walls of ice

feels so heated inside

Is there

Shall I break all my bones to sing my song

Will I learn how to set the fire on

before them

How can you

As they hold your writst

hard

The poison in their heart

Makes your fingerprints weak

A gift

I was

Burning bright

Now the smoke is on my way

Shall I

No

I long to be heard

How can words not feel this heavy in their tongue

While it crushes me

I feel like a traveling soul,
Living this half-empty life with a misty smell,
Of the past or the future following.

Chasing the half-full memories,
Mourning the unremembered past and the everlasting future.

Hearing the laughs from the other room,
Every time I tie my shoes,
Running to chase, God knows what.

Seeing time as sunbeams hit the free dust in the air,
Clicks of the open window,
Squeaking tiles in the throne room.

As I write my poem with mold,
Painting while the soulless ink drips from my pen,
Singing the puzzling history,
Will it ever be solved?

If death loses its meaning,
How can life remain any?
Claps,
Raindrops,
That one last note of that song…