your true colours remind me of my old bruises
the hues, the truth stuck in my throat
the feeling of being useless
your truth cannot rectify the divide inside
the echoing of inner child cries
the pain is stuck inside
choking on my insecurities
you were supposed to be my security
the foundation is weak
too scared to speak
choking on my impurity
will you still stay through the grey?
when i rain, will you hide away?
strive today for a idyllic place
to lay my head, to plan, protect
to understand your hands
as soft not violent
as truth not sufficing
why is my heart so divided?
can we make amends?

I wanna hear you say it
Don't want to need to rephrase

You love to feel this way
So you scream, could it be?

You give it all away
Admission free, could it be?

I can hear but I cannot see

Crybaby

I want you to write it down
It's not you, it's me, why I keep coming around

I can hear but I cannot see

Crybaby

Abdicated, celibate
More than had enough of it

I can hear but I cannot see
Crybaby.

I was shattered completely within,
My eyes went off control;
I split into tears still relieved the treachery,
He* then provoked, “Eh girly men don’t cry!”
Then a squabble ran onto my mind;
Why don’t men cry?

You distill within, you calm thine down:
You hop, you break, of course you frown.
Tears just roll down, to calm thy within,
Banding the aid that you got to fit.

The purity lies in the tears,
They wash off one’s filth, soothe and revive;
Gives you the fortitude and a roar
“High time to break the concealed fear”

Don’t rub off thy moisture
Let it remind;
You are a pow than the people behind
Your soul soothes, thy mind blows;
Fade the horror your life shows.

I keep getting asked "are you okay?"
Good question.
When will I finally be pretty?
Good question
I'll cut my hair and fake a smile
Hoping someone will stay a while
Why am I such a crybaby?
Good question
they say a broken heart is one that's been loved
But I guess nothing's perfect.
Who am I?
Good question
The best questions are the ones without answers.

I find a way to relate anything and everything to home.
Oh look, it's a bag of chips.
               I used to eat chips at home.
Oh look, it's a pencil.
               I used to use pencils at home.

And each time it makes me cry.

Someone passes by me wearing perfume that smells like Mom's,
I start crying.
I see the words mom, dad, parents, home, family,
I start crying.

Am I just a crybaby?
Or am I allowed to feel sorry for myself once in a while?
Because if you were in my place, you would too.
Anyone would.
Don't deny it.

Please just let me feel sorry for myself now.
Don't call me weak.
Don't call me over-sensitive.
Don't call me a baby.
Don't tell me to cheer up.
Don't tell me to focus on the good.
Don't tell me to shut up.
Don't say I'll be okay.
Don't say it'll all be over soon.
Don't say I'll get over it.

Just let me cry.