Writing is like falling in love; scary, stunning, difficult, amazing, big sweeping gestures, and falling from a plane... but it's worth it.

My body's but a host for all my many thoughts.
They get stuck in my veins when trying to reach my heart.
My lungs squeeze them in and out as they slowly struggle across,
My windpipe made of words to slip past my lips of art.
They crash around my stomach when I'm nervous or excited.
Causing little fights with sentences that get scrambled in my throat.
And I'm certain behind my eyes you'll see them messing around- delighted,
As they switch and mix up words to create new poems and quotes.
Inside my body is but a container of all my favorite things;
Lungs made of fairy tales and muscles made of fire,
Vessels made of children's laughter and bones made of wings...
Beneath my skin lives a world of all my many thoughts.
And I’m sure they would frighten and confuse all those who saw.
So I do my best to keep them hidden with my human attire.
For if no one sees what I am then people can't so willingly withdraw.

In the lines around my mouth,
You could read two different stories.
        They could've come from a smile.
          Or quite possibly from a frown.
But honestly you'll never know,
Unless, you brave the risk,
       Of coming to me alone,
and asking me yourself.

You fell in love with the way
the leaves fell from the tree's.
The way they were all beautiful,
as soon as they were leaf free.
They were bare and left vulnerable,
their branches like stiff fingers.
Looking as if trying to grasp,
their old life before winter.
You always loved the broken.
Or the ones that needed to be cared for.
And what you never seemed to have realized
was that those tree's were neither.
They didn't need your help.
For they already had a life goal.
To come back after winter,
So much stronger than before.
When you saw this you were disappointed.
And that's when I finally got it.
All this time it wasn't about fixing others,
But about stitching your own split.
You spent so long looking in others,
for a brokenness like yours.
Thinking that if you helped them fix it,
then maybe you could wipe your own tears.
But, darling, I'm here to tell you,
that your approach is all wrong.
You are actually like those bare trees.
For you've been whole all along.

There were clouds in her eyes,
From dreams she longed to share.
But instead rain fell from her open skies,
In rolling drops called tears.
She held on to all her dreams, for fear,
That no one would ever really steer,
Their planes into her stormy life to see,
Her land, her skies, or her deep blue sea.
When she once opened up herself to show
The world she had let inside her grow,
The ships and planes all turned away.
All cowards, fearful of a little rain.
However, over time it all evaporated.
That lonely rain got cloaked.
By plane's that were wreaked,
And their black puffs of smoke.
Her eyes no longer held that thunderstorm.
But instead they have changed form.
Now behind her eyes rests a burning forest,
That engulfs everything with an ember- a promise.
She isn't that fearful girl anymore,
Who wanted people to come in and explore.
Now, instead, she is a raging, flowing wildfire,
Who will never again cry
For those who run from her attire.

Your tongue was a leash, and it had held me captive for far too long.

Writing is much more than just spelling out words in clear sentences, or making sure you have correct punctuation. It's about creating something out of little more than wisps of thoughts and feelings. It's like, stitching a sweater with a dull needle and constantly drawing blood from pricking yourself accidentally with it. It's hard and brutal and your fingers or hand eventually become numb from the strain of it. But then... When you think your grip is forever stuck in the form of a pencil gripper, or your hand's are too ****** from the long task of stitching new life into something... you see what lays before you- a beautiful sweater, or perhaps a well thought out paragraph- and you realize it was entirely worth it. You finally understand the concept of working for something. You now know that when you have to claw and bleed your way to something, it becomes more precious to you. That fighting for something is infinitely more satisfying than anything else. And that, my fellow reader, is why writing is so amazing. We get to bleed for something that's actually worth giving everything up for. We get to live and create life through it. Writing is beautiful, but it is also the most terrifying thing anyone who does it can do. It's leaving yourself open and vulnerable to everyone. The best way I could possibly explain it you would be to say this: Writing is like falling in love; scary, stunning, difficult, amazing, big sweeping gestures, and falling from a plane... but it's worth it.

There were a few things my heart couldn't let me share.
A few words my mouth dared not declare.
A fleeting thought that I wouldn't let take hold.
The breath I fought to keep these few fears from being told.
There are a few things I've yet to overcome.
And until then... I shall hold onto them...

But, only until sharing them I can let be done.
When I know that I faced that beast and won.

It's a hole,
An abyss,
A seemingly endless pit of nothingness.
No light...
No air...
It's the very core of darkness.
You see no shadows,
but you feel their cold embrace.
You hear no voices,
but your thoughts fear their screams.

Your mind becomes the cruelest of all things.
Drawing up the allusion of beast's.
The ones that hide between the walls;
knocking while you drift off to sleep.
The ones that slip under the bed,
as soon as the lights wink out.
As soon as you full up the sheets...

The dark is the place of terrifying imagination.
Were your worst dreams become reality.
There is no escape, for you are blind.
Only the monsters know where you are.
And- and they are there.
Waiting for you to shut off the light,
for the sun to die...
For the dark.
For you to bring them to life.

You grabbed my chest and ripped it open,
Until my heart- all I was, fell on the linoleum.
My lungs were full, so with careful precision,
You used a scalpel and made an incision.
For an agonizing time I waited...
As you slowly took me apart and left me debilitated.
You looked at my parts and with a close inspection
You tossed out the ones that weren't perfection.
Then you began to reassemble me, with parts that were new.
While you repeatedly told me how much better they would do.
I believed all of your words and didn't question it.
But once they were in, my chest hurt, and they felt unfit.
I wanted them out, and my old pieces back.
But you said that wouldn't work, I couldn't back track.
Now I'm stuck with pieces that don't fully fit me.
Because I fell into the worlds description of who I should be.

Once
         there
               was
                     a
                      world
                        that
      ­                  would
                        have
                     much
               rather
         given
 love....

"What can be easily torn apart,
can be quick to deceive,
will build up walls just to rip them down,
is foolish and naive?"

"What can be tremendously fierce,
and all at once soft,
if unprotected, pierced,
and hard to defrost?"

"What can hold love,
yet shatters it like a porcelain doll,
can soar like a dove,
or just as easily slip and fall?

"Where are you trapped,
what keeps you locked in?
Answer this riddle,
and you'll be free; for you win."

              *

I think over the words.
Turn them in my mouth.
I have to complete the riddle,
or I'll never be let out.

Without hesitation, I turn to my captor.
A small lock that rests on thick bars.
waiting for my answer.

"Well, even though you try and thwart,
me and my very freedom.
The answer to your riddle is my heart.
So let me go, for you've been beaten!"

My voice echos in the chamber,
that I now realize is my chest.
The rips make up the cage,
and the heart's been holding me in arrest.

I press myself against my lungs,
and take in a big gulp of air.
The key hole shrikes as it unlocks
And I leave my self made snare.

Inside, inside I'm made of words. Sentences. Lyrics...
Inside, I'm life and death and light and darkness. I'm your worst dream and your greatest secret. I'm nothing and everything. I want someone to see me; for far more than just another face, another set of blue eyes, another smile, another voice... I want to be heard and understood. I want to be more than just what everyone says I am.

-Ravanna Dee

They were greek mythologies;
Of a Trojan horse and forbidden love.
They were fairy tales;
Of shining armor and pure white gloves.
They were the end and the beginning.
Of a child’s book told time and again.
And they were all just stories.
Believed in,
until they were forgotten…
Yet, still beautiful while they lasted.
They were.

One day;
I won't just find love.
I'll construct it.
I won't just fall in it.
I will climb towards it.
Love isn't just something that's there!
You have to put effort into it.
You have to make it into something great.
You have to actually try.

I've seen miracles happen.
I've seen families break apart.
I've seen love freely given.
And the hatred in some hearts.
I've heard the honest pleas of a broken;
as they fell to their trembling knees.
I've heard the cruelty a tongue can wield,
as they cut down their enemies.
This world is filled with good.
But also consumed with bad.
Don't be deceived by someones words.
But pay attention to how they act.

I was changed.
Altered by your words.
Forever deformed...
Never to be recognized.
No longer me.
But scraps of what I used to be.
Your words were knives.
And they slit me.
Ripped me.
Don't you see;
the effect of the words you speak?
Now, may I please
R.I.P.