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With this pen, I paint an image of you.
Not a portrait, but a true portrayal of you.
The ink flows into words that dance across your hair.
The end of each sentence marking a cross that you bear.

A painting would be suitable for some.
With beautiful colors, cascading down on you from above.
But, those colors mearly hide the truth behind your smile.
With the right shade of light and a light smear, it becomes a cosmetic fix for a while.

My words flow through every crack and fill every shadow.
They bring all light to the surface, for the reader to see within the shallows.

The image of you that I create can be vivid and great.
But with this pen, my words can also design your fate.

You see the truth here is that my words hold all truth.
They leave no place for lies to hide, with each word holding proof.

In the readers eyes, my words are you…
With this pen, I can create you…
With this pen, I can finish you...

- Brandon K. Stephenson
The underestimated writer and the power within his pen.
Olivia Christine Nov 2017
Your eyes captivate me
And draw me in more and more
I used to hesitate on telling you things
But I don't anymore
You always know what to say
Though I may not like it.
My day gets better
When I see those hazel eyes
Mystery boy, oh mystery boy.
Hannah Payne Dec 2016
Beneath the mask quivers and shivers weak and fragile flesh
Frigid and frozen with chills of fear.
I am crippling in-security secured, where they countlessly hide and whisper at the endings of each breath
Riddles veiled with gleams of chemicals disposed and recomposed between night and day,
Until the light hits it and the wind gusts it and incessant defections rise from the deepest depths of my horrific broken authenticity.
And they are all staring at me.
But this time not into the toxicity of my rusty razor eyes.

Beneath the mask is where my falling tears secrete
Pouring vacancy as a smile that feels more like a cracking cut that screams, "I do not belong here" , forms and quietly disarrays.
Buried, piercing eternal reminders that what is shrouded is and never will be clean.
Dig far enough and you'll unravel my roaring encrypted codes.
I want to feel the inner me. I want to let go. So please let me go.
I'm sick, surveying perplexed eyebrows and transient smug slugs that pass through me like a hundred and five venomous knives.

Beneath the mask rests squashed hope branded in the never seen.
Examine the clothed truth that's mounting me into a false entity
If only this was an illusion derived from my bitter history.
But the lights begin to flicker as endless passing heads and lifeless expressions come and go. Stop requested.
The laughing fluorescence continues.

Beneath the mask, recycled empty, plasticity.
Carried with titanium, Styrofoam delirium, impalpable veined elasticity.
And if you come close enough you may just see,
From the scabs and scrapes of doom that are bombarded by and masqueraded with false decadence.
Clipping the wings of individuation,
Don't label me innocent.

Beneath the mask are humorous symbols, layered with obscurity and decay residue.
Of shattered dreams and scattered stars drenched in solitude.
Guide me to the darkness so I can feel blended in, meaning comfortable in my own crumbling skin, and once again soak into my unsuccessful fantasies.
Cause I am stifled from a thousand suffocating bandages weighing me down,
I am the under-works of the ground, sleeping in the soil.
Like meds morphed into led, showered with alcohol.

Beneath the mask it is hard for me to breathe
It is hard for me to belong and it's hard for me to believe
Seek and create your deciphers and you will find deception draped in reverie.
But I've been inflicted with a mistaken realism.
Destined for something that will seemingly never ever be.

I am captivated behind nauseating smirks and painful smiles
So today please let me astray so I can remove this mask for just a little while?
I wrote this a few years back.
Proxii May 2016
The moment Your mind touches mine,
Complete and utter Devastation from Singular existence.
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