I'd like to be able to write again, but the universe is turning too slow in the wrong direction.
My heart drips instead of duh-dums
And my breath slips.

Rhyming sticks to the top of my mouth catching grains of rhythm as I regurgitate yesterday's thoughts.

I haven't been able to write lately, not because I am a bumbling busy body, but because time is frozen, I'm cemented and dissolving into the tasteless air.
Everything is too colourful lately, too... anything for me to understand.

Maybe I should start reading again, go back to painting stale blue skeleton hands with not enough paint.

Maybe that's my problem... There's not enough paint in my life.

why, when asked who the most important person in their life is, do people say their mumdadsisterbrotherhusbandwifesiblingcatfriend? Why do they answer that it is anyone except themselves? because let me tell you one thing;
it's you. it always will be.
it's your heart that keeps the blood pulsing through your blue-river veins. your lungs keep you breathing, no matter how painful each breath is. your legs move you from place to place, although, really, you never even want to be there in the first place. your arms have held loved ones while they have wept and your fingertips have produced transfixing music that has caused them to weep. your liver has kept you alive on the nights where you tried very hard not to be and your stomach has demanded that you really must eat even when you try to tell it, and yourself, otherwise. your lips have brought fireworks to those of others and your eyes have been a glowing fire through the deepest of nights and darkest of times (even if you think they're a terrible, in-between sort of colour)
it's you. it always will be

maybe i like the way he makes me feel,
wanted and worthless at the same time.
maybe i like the way he breaks my heart
but stitches it back together with his kisses.
maybe i like the way he never calls me beautiful,
but the way he looks at me when i enter the room sends chills down my spine letting me know he thinks so.
maybe i like the way he sends me home crying until 4 in the morning
and texts me telling me he loves me two hours later.
and maybe,
just maybe i like the way he hurts me.

You kissed me with your eyes open
because you said you could only believe
what could be seen.
I kissed you with my eyes closed
because I told you that sight does
not come from the eyes but with
knowledge from the heart.

Borrow me your eyes
So I can see what you see
When you look at me

Do you see the monster
Inside of me?
Do you see the darkness
Consuming me?

Or do you just recognise the person
You want me to be?

- Christina Rosa A.

Your words are so beautiful
It's like I know you're lying
But I almost still believe you