Fear has unraveled its roots,
in the dank soil of my soul.
This shadowed unknown agony,
lurks the dark country of my heart.
In places I would never dare go.  
A starless womb,  
from which black embryos of horror,
will be born.  

I launch prayers to the angels,  
but hell's laughter is wicked and loud.  

Dread.
Worse than being dead.

Adrift in shadows, hollowed by the night,
Yet gratitude still flickers, frail but bright—
A thirst for dawn, though weighed by whispered sorrow,
We clutch the fraying thread of tomorrow.

The ache of absence hums, a silent hymn,
Melancholy’s wine pools to the brim.
But in these ruins, treasures softly gleam:
A map of scars where longing dared to dream.

Our story trembles, ink on splintered wood,
Yet pulses warm where hopelessness once stood.
The thread, though thin, spills gold through vacant air—
A silken ladder climbing despair.

We’ll stitch the rift where darkness bleeds to blue,
And weave the tale our hunger dares renew—
For even fractured light still claims the skies,
And dawn persists in tired, stubborn eyes.

I never understood the sentence
"I have my heart in my mouth."
Not until I tasted it,
not until I spit it,
not until the words got stuck in my throat
because I felt a weight on my mouth that didn’t let me breathe.

I didn’t understand the sentence
until I felt my chest empty
and its beating on my neck.
Until I cried because I couldn’t even talk.

I didn't understand what
"Having your heart in your mouth"
meant
until I found it there
and I had no one to turn to.

My soul has collapsed.
My heart and mind have no care.
Times of pain feel like small eternities,
stifling the air.
My soul, laying at the rock bottom,
entangled, strangled by the minutes, hours and days
that lapse.

My heart numbly persists to pump blood
rich with pain.
My mind teeters closer to the cliffs edge
of being sane.
I dream the sky opens with a slashing rain.

At my souls disaster scene,
people whisper of the minutia and mundane.
Fellow humans promise to help,
as they pray with might you never ask,
that you never step out of your lane.
Few in life take a stand,
step outside of their box of plans.

Born for the deep, it's easier to seek the shallow.
Lack of wonder for what's beneath.
They just  step over the carcass's of souls
scattered amongst despairs ever growing heap.

The path into the black tree forest
can hear a lost soul's silent cry.  
The trees, black entanglements
of vacant limbs climb towards a pale sky.
Black bark configurations.
Excite the shadowed imagination.  
The black trees absorb despairing
thoughts and worries.  
Awaiting the sugared innocence  
of those first snow flurries.
Here, like a fallen leaf,
the heart's decayed foliage is quietly buried

My screams, fiercely and recklessly,
****** themselves into the starless sky.
Howls of despair became an inviting try.
It is fearfully unknown who or what may answer
from the den of the lachrymose night.
It's a different world in the charged absence of light.

The ghosts of my cries reverberate in heaven's valley,
and long linger down hell's burnt alley's.

Long before I knew self love would heal my life.  
Annihilate my strife.
A dawning of hope now veins my soul with the missing light.

Am I suffering beautifully?
Do I wear my agony like a crown?
Adorn it with pearls and jewels,
And parade it into town?

Is my pain reasonable enough?
Do I raise it up or tone it down?
I’ll try to cry pretty, tiny tears,
In fact, I'd do it in my gown!

For even in despair, I should be desirable,
Dare not to be emotional, dare not to make a sound.
To be a woman is to bleed, but glamorously.
There shall be glitters in the meltdown.