there are three kinds of people, the breakers, the fixers and the broken, the breakers cannot handle happiness in others and so they have to break those who are happy, the fixers are the ones who cannot handle others being in sadness or dispair and they do all they can to fix the broken, the broken people are the ones lost between being breakers and fixers, constantly breaking themselves down and trying to repair themselves back to normal again. /and everyone is trying to find there place between the breakers, the fixers and the broken, everyone wants to be a fixed person perfectly okay without cracks or broken pieces, but there are only three kinds of people.

-moyees

only ignorant fools fall under the pressure of their friends boots and find themselves  customised to the ways of ill minded and stupid, yet only they know the workings and non workings of their mind to change these ways into better ones than they have been pushed into
/ ignorance /
-m

just when it all seems good, the dust stirs and the choked blackness prevails and I suffocate in the midst of all these problems and the more people's feet step in the more the dust flies, I can't stop the cries, this everlasting circumference of circumstances. my heart it vents to die, oh why, do I believe the goodness will ever stay.
-

you're in a dark place, in an onyx ocean you float aimless amongst the rest, your arms and legs weightlessly heavy. you toss and turn like an unkept duvet cover, a wrinkled description of the sad lines on your tired face. you barely break the surface of the turbulent waves, crashing and uncrashing. you wish you could just let go and sink like a rock, but you float. like a piece of plastic strewn away after its usefulness. the current carries you, and you let it. push you further and further away from a shoreline. you are stranding yourself so much that no one can even get to you to rescue you.
(self-stranded)
-m

I've always wondered where this pain in my head comes from, where it goes when the tears have numbed my face. I wonder why it comes, why it chooses to stay here, in my head. It's made itself comfortable in there. so it comes by more often. when it leaves does it go to someone else's head? or does it prefer the closed limitations of mine?

small spaces/no air, blackened eyes and ******* hair, keys/gone underneath the chair, keep looking/ find it no where, no light/ switch to the dark ones, empty beds/heads filled with questions/answers to complicated situations/ excavations of the past/ at last I find the keys/ he's my answer/dancer in the light, long nights left alone in the dark, searching for my one true side, we collide like a fork and a spoon/ curving soon to the metal handle, like 3 arms holding up these candles. red hot flame, burns the blame/ game for us to play/say do you hear the silence that is conveyed/ raid their hearts and fill their lungs with smoke and jokes/ notes stuck up on this wall, waiting to fall, like leaves/ he leaves me bare to the branch, I'm left standing on my own two feet/beat to the finish line/ spine traced and bent to carry the key for the next generation/ they want an explanation, why she is so broken/ outspoken, a her but not here. come on dear fetch me a beer

She wonders, where his heart is, if it carries her name like it does all his sins and burdens, she worries that his heart is filled with regret and hatred than it does love. she hopes his heart is kept safe from broken things, she hopes one day he'll put his heart in careful hands as capable as his own

she walks amongst the broken glass,
careful toes and silent cries as she cuts her feet.
two rivers flow gentle southward, curving in the crevices of her cheeks. she's hold her head high and proud, as sand blasts her in her face. rocks fall upon her shoulders digging new holes in her red jacket leather. her voice is low, it sings a tune, of a blue bird she dreamt of. her feet keep walking and walking on, set on a empty future. her hands are artworks and artists, cut and cutting beautiful patterns into white canvas, tearing away the innocent left behind. the thunder and clouds shout endless rainstorms, they wash away the tears, blood and pain. they bring a static numbness that seems to last forever, until the lightning brings his brothers friend. a silver dagger, so beautiful so hideous, it cuts open her chest to find an empty cavity with nothing but flesh left, a heart lies dormant, it's pulse gone. her soul is lifted to another level, a place where nothing exists. her mind stares blank at this screen, lost in nothingness. but her body is stuck in this bed, the house no longer a home, waiting for the minutes to reach, the hours to end, so she can sleep and dream, ****** dreams, wake up and carry on with what life brings

as she finally tasted the sweet nectar of freedom, it was ripped from underneath her feet, taken as a prize of her joy. taken because woman were the ones to be taken from, not given too

flashes of eyelashes, flickered back and forth
glinting of teeth, dancing pearls in a red lipped sea.
rivers and canyons of golden, flocks of hummingbirds, flapping a wind chime.
dancing trees, and tips of thumbs, outlines of dimples, roads to nowhere.
blue chipped light bulbs, freckled with white snow drops

highly he sits on his pure white stallion, blameless and truthful, or so he portrays himself to be.
he thinks himself to be the one the words are directed at, but he dare point the finger at himself, he thinks himself to be to perfectly unperfect that he could ever do such a thing
he asks of me such little things not knowing they stand on mountains
I dare not speak of her to him, he jumps quickly from his royal perch and rains his thunder down on my back
oh how you think you own the world dearly beloved, so gallop away on your mule and grab your sensitive precious princess and run away to your little Kingdom where you have no rule apon me!
-m

speak it! speak it against me, I know it burns you to spit such fire. Yet you think it! because the mind runs wild, while the mouth remains mild.
speak it! I dare you! for once you open your mouth to the thoughts you think, you cannot close the broken door. you think weak smiles and half hearted replies will suffice this line.
For this line is disconnected and you cannot phone back.
So spit it! For I do not hear your childish unwanted thoughts of me, oh speak it against me.
-m

he is unruly, he is but a ****** word
that no righteous tongue will speak,
he is but a old dusty book, unread,
grey with it, he rubs his name from
those he wishes for unseen, and for
one he stays on the line, on beck
and call, but for any other, such as
me, he waits, or does not wait.
for he knows I speak such truths.
he sees the line from which I write,
but I shall never protest his name
for that would be an unrighteous
fate
-moyees

she spirals out of control, like a blown away dandelion. broken by society flinging her rawly into the world of plastic flowers. she lands when the wind can't break her fall, smashing her dreams into concrete. her little seeds of happiness trodden on and lost is all she has left of her once beautiful self
-moyees

she needs to let go, but these splinters keep finding their way under her nails and she can't dig them out without hurting

Her lips and her eyes, they tell such lies
Oh how you only saw the beautiful disguise
She's had on since those times
She hiding herself from what's behind
Left in the past to rot and dies
Her old self is no longer with us
But her eyes and her lips they play **** tricks
So beautiful and amazing they say
Oh how they only see what she pretends to be
-moyees

Her soul is a fire, it burns with an intent.
not to harm or cause destruction to those
 she crosses paths with.
But to keep those close to her warm and safe,
However,
if you dare to step into her flames unprotected you will burn inconveniently, if you dare to throw water to douse her she will break out stronger that you think.
Her soul is a fire, think again when you speak to her.
-moyees

can't stop the thoughts,
the flow like endless streaming light,
theses ideas and false memories,
I want to wake up,
wake up from this pointless dream,
I don't want to keep seeing your face,
but it's still there,
everytime I close my eyes,
where ever my eyes wonders,
you are, 
they don't ever stop, I wish they would,
but they won't, 
because I will see you again 
-moyees

' The comparison between the big fish in a small pond and a small fish in the ocean can be related to an egotistical man who finds himself the big shot but is locked in such a small world he has no real dreams or aspirations, all he can do is swim around his small pond of knowledge because that's all he knows. Yet the small fish, a boy who's only wish is to be better and dreams of new possibilities has the entire ocean to explore because even though he's not the big fish, he knows there's more out there than a simple pond of life, thoughts and dreams. The bigger dream is no more important that the small dreams, just as the small fish isn't less important than the big fish
-m

'he's up late, endless conversations,
telling of past stories, opening up the
void, he's a perfect explanation for
nights with no sleep, his smile is vast,
over exaggerated eyes and an ocean of
hair, voice of the stars, his tears are golden,
he's dancing in the rain of sorrow, talking
about a better tomorrow, he sees the light
 in the corners of the world, swimming through
reefs of colours and thoughts, he tells the story,
making endless silences, he's gone to early'
-m

nameless acts, frowned upon the crease of their eyebrows and the purse of their lips. acts tasted by few, and by even fewer than they, held carefully on the tip of their tongue, afraid to let the act fall away, but to afraid to gulp it down. act at which most must act upon is seen as no more than a one second glance.

the unbreakable balance of,
small tiptoes past, 
quite smiles and loud eyes,
the unasked for hugs and hellos,
the unbreakable balance.
tone deaf competitions,
and stupid little things
those beautifully footed decisions
and thankful regrets,
crumpled notes and shared sandwiches,
the unbreakable

the curtain. this metaphorical object,
drawn over the eyes of those who protest against
their sight, this curtain of dark unwanted thoughts,
reins freely behind these hanging cloths, the protester
seems to speak of the light, yet is stuck behind the
curtain. this metaphorical object.

fine me, where the silence is,
no one talks here, because the
voice that says I'm here, speaks
less than the body who sits next
to you in the silence.

Grudge holders are like antique collectors
the longer they hold on to something
the more dust it collects
and when its picked up again
the situation becomes unbreathable.