We are dilluted
Polluted by our sense of separateness
Deluded into thinking
That kinship is a shrinking circle
A stinking cesspool
Generations of veneration of
Lines and boundaries

But bones buried under history
Connect you and me
Her and him
Us and them
No matter what country
Or century we live in

These are my people
This is my family
We sit around write words on paper
Speak fluent emotion
We automatically know one another
Despite just meeting each other
Paper binds us mentally
Vocally our words flow together
Like two rivers meeting at a bend
We are strange in the eyes of outsiders
But genius to each other
Our words moving one another
Shifting our views
Our voices chasing actions
We are a group of wonderful individuals
We are poets
And these are my people
This is my family

when love is in your heart you have everything
happiness for ever this your love will bring
there for you to share  there for you to give
to last forever more as long as you may live.

always in your heart your love will always stay
there to last a lifetime and never fade away
in your heart and soul to last eternally
there inside your heart love will always be.

I have spent hours contemplating the right way to express the things in my mind.

But no combination of 26 different letters can even begin to explain what this is.

No form of imagery can show the world the things that I see in my head.

No similes or metaphors can bring people to tears like my own thoughts do to me.

No adjective can describe the voices I hear, telling me I'm worthless and insignificant.

And even if I could extract my thoughts and play them like a movie, no one would see it the way I do.

No one would see them like their own, and interpret them like I do.

It's all up there, created by me, but someone ******* hacked my brain and put a password on it,

For when I try and scream out for help, or when I try and write it all down, I keep stopping, and overthinking, and start worrying that it's not right.

Whether I want people to see the things I see in my head,

Whether I want them to be brought to tears,

Whether I want them to hear the voices,

Because If I were them, I wouldn't.

There's nothing left of me now.
I don't know what I've become.
I don't know if it's good,
I don't know if it's bad,
but I know I want to go back.

I want to feel young again.
Young enough to feel alive,
young enough to have a colourful mind,
and a heart full of ambition.
A time when nothing's ever enough.

We think we're alone,
But we only have to look around,
And we're just like everyone else.

Typical, sad teenagers,
Aware it's generic yet it feels so personal,
Driving our insecurities more and more.

And I don't know which would be worse,
To be so alone,
Or to mean nothing at all.

If life is an experiment,
where are the variables?
Are they evident?

People come and people go,
places change, people age,
And you adapt as you grow.

Feelings vary through the years,
there’s love, there’s loss,
there’s joy, and tears.

The conditions change, from time to time,
Different settings, journeys new,
no set paradigm.

And the subjects shift,
in the focus of life,
some a curse, some a gift.

Some say happiness comes from within,
but I name it the dependent variable,
changing to reflect life’s every whim.

But there’s one thing I seem to miss:
If life’s an experiment,
where’s the constant in all of this?

Is the constant life, breathing, living?

Is the constant you, existing, here?
Is the constant love, growing, giving?

Is the constant intangible?
Is it time, or place?
What is the unchanging variable?

What does humanity all somehow share?
What connects us to each other,
and throughout our lives is always there?

Your body is your canvas.
You never keep it safe,
you adorn it with scars
of lost loves, of lost dreams, of all your burnt-out stars.

Your lifestyle's your easel,
the only thing that keeps you high,
be it the days when you just can't stay still,
or those when you shatter and cry.

Your thoughts are acrylics,
shades of melancholy, maroon and black.
They characterize your essence,
all the hopes and falls you've stacked.

Your words are your brushes,
imagine how many stories they tell.
With every sigh you define
another line within your personal hell.

Do not lose your ambition, don't give up your health,
for you are not just an artist, you are art itself.

Whisper me how I am.

Tell them how I really am,
not a shell of me,
or a new body of me.

Tell my real thoughts,
my real values.

Tell how I looked under the moonlight,
when you whispered "I love you"
Right into my right ear.

Tell them how when I was down,
you came around, and held me tight.
Whispering that it would be alright.

Don't sit there and lie.

Don't tell them that I'm just another girl, because I'm not.

Please.

Whisper me how I am.

I want your ******* stupid sense of humour
making me laugh at 5am
When I have to be up at six.