He burnt my walls down with such caring
I went on to tell him things I couldn’t imagine ever sharing

His hands through my hair feel like a summer breeze
This feeling of safety he radiates I except with such ease

His smile so abundant and beautiful like autumn leaves
When he looks into my eyes I can tell he just  sees me.

S.R. Millan

I used to think I was flawless, truth is I am less than perfect.
I can't believe how awful I am, but I mean, what do you expect?
I am less than perfect, that much is true, but I can't help but wonder
What does perfection physically look like? Each of these ideas I plunder.

I don't know. I'm not sure about anything anymore. Haven't a clue.
Everywhere I look, it's just multiple copies of the darkest shade of blue.
Everyone stares at me, their soulless eyes, a dead, glazed look.
So I try to keep my head down, hiding behind my many notebooks.

Perfect. Why even have a word for something that doesn't exist?
It's a useless word, something I try to avoid but it always persists.
Sometimes I think about if I were perfect. What would I look like? Act?
Then I try to push the many thoughts away, they're way too abstract.

What does it mean to be perfect? It means to not have ANY flaws.
That's all I'll ever hear, "Be more perfect, you'll gain some applause!"
I hate that I have live with this idea of perfection, it's a "utopia", so dumb.
So I have to change myself to be the person that people want me to become.

Whoseforest

flames hail,
so They wail
in Whoseforest.

the smog of it all,
has the system dull
in Whoseforest.

wails of help resound,
but are Their voices really found?

a peasant man’s dime too little,
a wealthy man’s dime too many.
                                 lackthereof
the kings lounge
as scorn rages
and rages
and rages
in Whoseforest.

the peasants beg,
“your majesty!
choking up
our lungs,
Their lungs,
Her lungs.
this tragedy
is one of ours
of yours
deploy a strategy
have you not?”

the kings sit
with the wealthy
sipping tea
eyes lit
with lax smiles.

but just like Them,
their voices go
unfound.

peasant, wealthy, royalty
all born and bred
of the same ancestry
brothers cry,
but brothers stray

They too,
both and bred
of their ancestry
but descendants soon
fall flat

mother nature now speaks,
“for we are all born and bred
of the same hearth
should it not be our earth
to love and share?”
She,too, wails
for Whoseforest.

so tell me now,
whose forest?

"Pillar, pillar, pillar".
Gosh
who am I kidding?

"Support".
Maybe
you're my stability?

Falling,
however,
through your aid.

Upwards and downwards,
With and without you.
The latter seems fair,
though
the former too
                            don't.
So,                 or
       help me

Allured by her presence,
you rise

Sheer power,
She yields,
And you submit
To its potency

Of imminence she reeks,
you know,
And fall into a slumber,
Of repudiation,
you reek

Before your very eyes,
She breathes life into death
And you reform
your ways

You watch her transform
A pair of wings,
She sets off with,
Shrugging off the feeble protective shell of past

For too long you try
To reach out,
Only to realise,
Your wings
Are clipped

Sometimes when life is harder than it needs to be and my lungs are filled with tv static and all the words I’ve choked down over the years I yearn for the feeling of a blade across skin. I can’t help but look at faded pink scars with envy over a time I could get away with opening my veins as a way to cope. The smell of blood makes me sick, reminds me of a time I was worse off than I am now. When I couldn’t go more than a few hours without draining my body dry. But a sick part of me misses it. My brain longs for one more chance to feel the sting of metal across thin skin. I miss having something physical to bring me back to being alive. When my brain gets foggy and I don’t remember how it feels to be myself I miss having a way to clear the smoke from behind my eyes. Self destruction was my better half. When I was hurting myself I was a better daughter. A more attentive friend. I’m only my best for others when I’m destroying myself.

You let your hands rush by the ivy,
ripping off every leaf you could get them on.
Only to drop them when no longer desired,
broken women, scattered across the lawn.

Fuel the fire residing in me,
feel the flames rushing through my veins.
Through my pain it let me see,
let me break free from these candent chains.

Let my pen rush past the paper,
passionate words penned down with a poetic temper.
Words aspiring for something greater,
to hold them to myself I could never.

A simple, fiery truth.
Rekindling my spirited youth.