She was a girl with oceans inside her,
waves made of dreams too fragile to hold.
But the world is indifferent —
it pulls, it drowns, it takes,
leaving salt in the wounds it never cared to see.
Her tides fought back,
rising, crashing,
begging to be enough,
until exhaustion felt like peace.
Now she floats,
not sinking,
not swimming,
just there.

You think that was scary?
Well I'm influenced,
For terror is a good friend of mine.

A cold embodiment of emotion,
Hollowed me out to a husk,
For I'll always remember,
The time he almost took from us.

Drowned out by divas
It was comfort that left us unprepared for this
This being the circuital embibement of chores and books
A choice to unentangle the moth from the web
Leaves one with typical but still misunderstood disturbances
Dad is a peadophile
We had ***
And now they're naming me a newt
A wet creature, suited especially to specific environments
A sham executed from the musical tenemants is one thing
But a crammed into trailer park is just a shame.
what makes a butterfly float, when everyone else is drowning?
The eyeish eckelecktic rom capacity can be blown away
And the attitudes of specs can thwart their own terrain
But if a pen draws blood, there's not room left for anything
So tell me the joke, esplanade yourself beyond my reach
Coke yourself up, give a scream, patent this work as your own, cherish the tub thumping
Be a cherub though rather than an angel, excrete malignantly and door slam the foreign light.
But someone must decide if the light is foreign.

Violence is never the answer,
But the implication of that quote
Is that violence is an answer
Even if it isn't ever optimal.

As someone once deaf,
And because of it once mute,
Such a quiet but thoughtful demeanor
Usually stirs one from their bitter attitude.

The slumber of anger,
Like that of sadness;
The tiredness is a dear friend,
The emptiness of them.

In that absence of contentment
Missing too is common sense.
The confusion of all emotions,
Their transient nature and overlap.

The first thoughts in the morning,
Filled with tension and anxious,
Mirror those like at night;
The nest of pests parasitic.

Anger, like sadness, is too broad.
Am I enraged by indignation?
Am I grieving from someone gone?
They have their places.

But violence is never an answer.
Peace, no matter what,
Is ever hardly secured
Even if it is always optimal.

Life’s like an old rose garden,
once blooming,
now withering.

Petals falling,
replaced by dry leaves,
wrapped in silence,
once so rare,
now so heavy.

I return home,
laughter ringing in ears.

But as the door shuts,
loneliness greets me,
like a cold, hazy mist,
or dark clouds that the stars resist.