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Michelle Lynne Apr 2014
I remember the first time I laid my eyes upon your dark, golden-highlighted ringlets siting haphazardly on your nimble head. They were positioned above your flat, south Asian face, as if some wayward artist took his paintbrush and, in a fit of creative chaos, splattered and sputtered paint across a blank and endless canvas. Your hair represented the kind of sweet, quiet entropy that people needed in their lives. The great offense the artist had committed by being so reckless with such a delicate subject could be forgiven, however, because he surely acted as such simply because he had previously exhausted himself whilst meticulously creating your enrapturing eyes. Round cerulean orbs, speckled with bits of yellows and greens with a péridot ring centered around a pitch black pupil that represented the contents of your dispassionate heart. This is not an accurate description of the man who holds my unrequited love, however. You have achieved this sort of romantic, majestic rendition of beauty through the bias of my foolish heart and through my patronage of the arts. A typical person would do much better to portray you as nothing more than a hellish brute who is in desperate need of a haircut and a perhaps a larger assortment of clothing rather than torn, raggedy jeans and hand-me-down heavy metal t-shirts.
Michelle Lynne Feb 2014
From my rotting body, flowers will grow, and I will finally be beautiful.

The marigolds that will bloom will not flee and vanish from the glow of the sun
They will aspire and capture its power, ever basking in its majesty unlike all that I have done
For they are enduring and evergreen, quite a contradiction to someone always on the run

Helianthus will burgeon from my corpse in the Autumn, cordial, acquiescent and jolly
Luminous hues of gold, superiority in the form of a blooming seedling, free of worldly folly
Irresistible to butterflies and feathered creatures, who shall evermore adore the perennial dolly

Snowdrops with delicate pedicels will pepper the frost polishing over my long corroded flesh,
An impeccable ability to synthesize with the world effortlessly, so that I may at last mesh
Nevermore will I acquiesce to let the world negligently toss me about, instead the world will thresh

Irises in the spring will be next to transcend, ripe with nonconformity rooting from their eccentric peridot petals
For the world encompassing them may be wrapped in blissful ignorance, but  they will forever hesitate to settle
They realize that life is for naught, putrescence is inevitable, so why even make a vain attempt to mettle

As sure as the sun will ascend, the summer will materialize, and the sun's glimmer will rage from dusk until dawn
For the world will strive on, long after I am gone, and my effulgence on the Earth is perpetually withdrawn

I am not fearful of death because in death there is ignorance and blissful uncertainty
From my rotting body, flowers will grow, and I am in them and that is eternity.
Michelle Lynne Jan 2014
You messed with my head
     My head is a mess.
You messed with my world
     My world is a mess.

   I am a mess.
A mess of mindless self-indulgence
Minus the indulgence

I am the essence of egoism
The epitome of selfishness
                             ­     echelon
                                                    ­             of arrogance
The meaning of ignorance

I have
But still
                    I wait
                                        for you
                            adore you.
Michelle Lynne Oct 2013
I have become the essence of depression.
I feel nothing, because I am nothing.
I am overwhelmed by the beauty of the world after being crushed by its cruelty.
I look around to see humans, but no humanity.
When you're this close to ceasing to exist, you start noticing everything.
Red is no longer just red.
It is maroon, mauve, ruby, and as many different hues as my vacant mind can imagine.
People are no longer people, they become art. I notice every color in your cerulean eyes. Aquamarine, verdant green, with a cobalt blue ring around a pitch black pupil reminiscent of your heart.
As of late, I have taken pride in lacking a soul mate. When two people are soul mates, they share a  heart and soul. When one of the soul mates dies, their soul mate dies in some ways, too.
I don't have a soul mate.
Lucky me.
Michelle Lynne Sep 2013
To be a human being is to be riddled with thousands of imperfections.
Full of flaws; scrapes, spots, and scars cover broken and bruised skin.
But robots need not fear and fret about fixable, trivial defections.

Humans perpetually throw themselves at cold, apathetic, greedy clinicians
Only to be given terrible news and told there is no cure for a horrid death.
Meanwhile, robots bask in the glow of love from a passionate technician.

Humans can never agree when it comes to the dealings of the heart.
Always one-sided, they take turns ruthlessly destroying each other.
Robots, oblivious to the issues of any and all feeling, live freely.

Naive humans will work tirelessly, only to see nothing but certain failure,
But life has never once benefited those of us who are currently living.
So, humans crafted robots, to always succeed where they could not.
Michelle Lynne Jul 2013
It was yellow like the sun
And dandelions by the pond
In the middle of the new hope of spring

It swallowed me whole
I let it steal all of my control
Until I had become positively nothing

The blood trickles down
Across lips frozen in a frown
Broadcasting the sad signs of suffering

Anything just to get to sleep
Just be mindful not to cut too deep
Or the side effects will start to become troubling

Making sure that nobody suspects
Your friends don't know what to expect
Barely able to just keep on living and functioning

I need help, I know I can't keep this up
I feel my will being drained, I'm out of luck
Trying to survive, nothing but constant struggling

I have keep going, I have to at least try
If I don't fix this soon, I may just possibly die
My life is slipping away, my condition is worsening

I have to live to see another new day
I can't just let the beautiful gift of life slip away
I will persevere, I will succeed, no matter how challenging
Michelle Lynne Jun 2013
How can somebody who is regarded as being so fantastically creative, destroy so much?
Perhaps it's not that I'm creative, perhaps it's just that I have a talent for picking up the all the jagged, crumbled pieces.

Nostalgic for familiar feelings and guilty pleasures,  still so keen on the awe-inspiring rush.
When you awaken in the morning with all that dried blood in your nose,  you wonder how much longer you have until life ceases.

Resisting the gruesome yearning for ripped flesh and the cold feeling of the blood gush.
How much longer can I persevere alone? How many more days do I have to survive till my quality of life is increased?

These emotions are weighing me down, beating me up, my heart is literally crushed.
I can see the rays of light peeking out behind the clouds, and I'm so terribly desperate for any sort of  peace.

Waiting and watching, begging for a sign that this world is even capable of being just.
I used to wait for you, because I knew you'd be there. Now it seems I'm just waiting for any form of a release.
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