Who's guttural laugh is this?
Who's voice with
No sorry's left?

Who is this animal
Who lays out their words
In mosaic rapture?

Sometimes shaking,
Reshaping, reshapened

Who's are these?
And these?
And these?

Bitten hands biting,
Who are they fighting?
DMT curiosity *******,
Rage romancing

Who's face is this
Who's arms,
who's wide legs
of audacity spread?

a moth mistook my lamp
for the moon,
and broke itself
believing
the light was love.

i don’t remember when i stopped having control over my life
it’s probably when i said “it’s fine.”
when it wasn’t

now i ride along in the train, i call my mind
yellow seats forming
showcasing the fading joy i once felt

there’s also a red seat.
a concerning seat
a seat i never imagined myself sitting in
a seat that represents me, as a whole, diminishing away
where i had my own personality
my own style
my own feelings
my true and original self
a self that will never be seen again

Utterly consuming, weaving around my body like a snake. Spiraling and spiraling until there's nothing left of me. You need to leave. You need to get away. Get away. Get away. It makes my stomach drop. "Why is this happening to me?" I ask, to whom I do not know... "I was never like this before. I could challenge the world if I wanted to. So... answer me... why? Why is this happening to me?" And yet... no matter how many times I asked, the thing would not answer. I wondered if I was dying, perhaps that was the reason why all I could feel within my body was an all-consuming feeling of dread and fear. At this point, I was begging the thing for an answer to no avail. I was hopeless, I wanted to do what I could do before. I wanted to explore, to look beyond the world, beyond the stars. But this ****** fear stopped me from doing any of that. The thing patted my head and asked me a question, "Do you think your fear is unreasonable? That it is there for no reason?" It smiled briefly before saying, "You should be grateful, for I may save your life one day."

If I had to think of one phrase to describe me,
It would be: “I feel…deeply.”
Happy to sad,
Melancholy to glad,
The good days feel amazing,
And the bad days feel…bad.
But I feel…deeply.

Sitting in a room full of people I’ve seen,
Talked with, greeted, and shared some things.
Yet, I still feel like a stranger,
Who wandered somewhere I shouldn’t be.
This lonely feeling,
I feel it…deeply.

Friends who’ve moved on,
Without a second thought,
Leaving me to fend for myself.
“Who needs anyone else?”
I’ll say to myself to muffle my grief,
But I still feel it…deeply.

Helplessness, entrapment,
All fueled by anxiety.
I gnaw at the ropes,
Trying desperately to break free,
With what little I control,
I guess I just go with the flow.
As I weep,
Because I feel…deeply.

Perhaps, I’m too different.
Perhaps, I’m not enough.
Perhaps, I’m just forgettable,
Perhaps, that’s all I ever was.
These fictitious thoughts creep into my reality,
As I feel…deeply.

I wish I were normal,
I wish I fit in,
And I wish I wasn’t abnormal,
But a normal bystander instead.
I know there’s only one of me,
And I should be the best me I can be,
But sometimes, it feels like,
I can’t even be me…right.
This, I feel…deeply.

Sometimes I wish I didn’t think,
Sometimes I wish I were less advanced.
Would it be easier,
Or would it be harder then?
Why does everyone around me seem to function like they’re fine,
While I’m struggling and crumbling on the inside?
Life never said it was going to be fair.
I just wish I didn’t care.
But instead, I drown in an ocean, searching for meaning,
This I feel…deeply.

What am I to do?
What am I to say?
“This is who I am.”
And go on with my day?
Sometimes I hate how I am,
My biggest hater is myself,
And no one else.
Though it’s easier to assume they do.
Even if it’s not the truth.
Sometimes I wonder how my life would be,
If I didn’t feel so…deeply.

sometimes i wonder what it's like to be a washcloth.
once a washcloth has been greasy and worn out,
someone who appreciates its worth takes it out from the workshop,
rubs it clean
removes all the grime, the dirt, the grease, the impurity
soaks it in a tub full of soap and warm water
then laid out to enjoy the breeze
and embrace the warmth of the sun
to start fresh, to start anew, to feel brand new again.
a clean slate for the washcloth; a repetitive process until it has been worn out on its last string.

i wonder what it's like to be a washcloth.
to be able to wring out all the scars, the wounds, the wickedness
and start anew every time.

but i guess that's what makes us human.
all the battle scars will remain as a lesson,
all the wickedness situated upon us will always convey a message,
and all the pain will serve its reminder that there is a brighter tomorrow.

but sometimes,
i can't help but wonder
what it's like to be a washcloth.

His glance, like a match ignited a fire within her soul
A raging inferno fueled by her desires
Consumed by the flames she let them turn her heart to ash, serving as a symbolic death to all that came before him.
His presence, like necromancy made her rise from the dead
She was free, like a phoenix soaring high from the ashes of her past.
His devotion, like a blood oath in a coven gave her security.
He was bound to her by Saturns rings, timelessly committed.
Their love, like a vampiric tale was eternal, for they would find each other in every lifetime…