If someone were to make you, where would they begin?
Would they need a bowl, a cookie sheet, or some kind of molded tin?
Would you be sweet, a little sour, or even have a kick?
Would it be the knife that cut you, or the spoon from which they lick?
Would they start with cream to soften, or flour to make you thick?
Would the eggs just make you runny, or would they make you stick?
Would you need lemon zest, or pepper flakes, or chocolate chips?
Would you melt inside their mouths, or would you burn their lips?
Would you rise inside an oven, or would you boil above a flame?
Would they have memorized the recipe, or would they only know the name?

Hush child
It's time to go
They are coming
They running through
The bleak and dreary fields
They want to destroy
They want to ****
But we must not stay
For tales of our people's
Strength lives on
We the weak
Will never die
Because our hearts
Are filled with bravery
Filled with passion
We protect those we love
Now Hush Child
Run
You are the future
When all is forgotten
You will live on
Hush child
Run

the last piece of you
is the way you left
the controller settings on the
switch.

the triggers, the bumpers,
A, X, Y, and B
still talk to me.

how silly and heart-wrenching a thing.
a ghost of
the preference
of how you wanted to fight
or how you wanted to co-operate.

im walking through life with
motion controls.
too slow to match
the speed at which you  
faded out my storyline.
like a NPC completing his quest.

it was set up
to never reach endgame.

asking the forums

“how long before I let
other hands
relieve mine?
i keep punching when i want to jump
and the special moves always miss.
how do i change my inputs
when everything leads back to this?”

headcanon:
soon there’ll be
another boy
i’ll let write his name,
onto this LCD’d heart.
reaching around my
whitened knuckles,
still trying their hardest to play
through your absence.

[...] like a moth that would do anything to reach its light, here you fight for our love. Like a moth blinded by the beauty of the light, unaware of the harm the light could do to it, you never give up fighting for our love. But why do you put yourself through this pain?

You can take away my liberty
You can take away my freedom of choice
You can take away my joy and my smile
But you can't take away my voice

You can shut the doors
And you can shut out the light
You can take away the people I love
But you can't take away my fight

Cause every time you knock me down
I'll get right back up
You might not care about what happens to me
But I do

I will use my voice
I will fight my fight

Shadows prove that there is light.

Purple flower—
lonesome afterimage;
a fighter with a purple eye.

I was 13 when I found myself scratching my hands
Fighting with the feelings from some unexplored land
A land of mortifying hurt and pain
A land that I never want to see again
But 2 years on, I still visit daily
Cause I'm still addicted to the feelings of agony
And taking them out on my body, battered and bruised
Much like myself it's been tortured and used
Not just scratching now but much more too
Doing things to my flesh that I know I shouldnt do
But the feelings they build, with every passing hour
I'm not doing this to hurt others
I'm not bitter or sour
I'm doing this because I'm addicted to the feeling
The rush of endorphins
When my head is reeling
The racing heartbeat thumping in my chest
Cause my heart knows I shouldnt
My heart knows best
But my mind is warped and confused and a mess
From fear and anxiety and depression and stress
So much so that I start to feel numb
Not feeling anything
So desperate to not succumb
To the darkness of empty
That fills up my head
As I lie upside down in the dark on my bed
So desperate to feel something
Anything at all
That again, I find cuts and scratches,
Appalled at myself
Knowing I cant afford to lose my existence to this
But still I keep cutting and scratching and all
Cause when I'm in the moment,
It feels like bliss
That feeling as your soul ignites with sensation
I visit that place and it's become a great nation
That so many others visit now too
But you cant reach them
Stuck in your own private battle
Fighting the voices that have appeared in my head
Whispering the words that I've learnt to dread
"Just one more cut"
"One more scratch"
They say
And I'm trying to tell them
I dont wanna play this game
But the voices get louder
And louder
And louder
All I need is to go back
With a sprinkle of forgetting powder
I just want to turn around
Go back to the start
But I can't, and you know why?
Because in part
The reason i did this
The reason i began
Was because i wanted the feel of that land.

The way I have dealt with my traumas
Has varied.
They have moved as swiftly
As the seasons change,
And have always adapted to the current climate in which I live.

For a short while, I could pretend as though
Nothing happened.
I could pretend as though my pain was as
Invisible as their ability to love me,
And that I was as unaffected as
An old oak that has weathered storms past.

Then came my acceptance, and my fight.
I fought.
Hard.
To be seen, and heard, and believed.
But alas, this was not to be.
It was then I learned, that sometimes silence is what is needed
To weather a great storm.

Then came the talking.
With endless cups of coffee,
And whistles that glowed in the dark,
I learned what it truly meant to share my pain
With one that would not tell my secrets.
Who could not tell of the demons dancing throughout my head.
To truly learn that trust can
Also weather a great storm.

Finally, has come nothingness.
I try, desperately to forget the remaining threads that
Tether me to my memories,
Even when I still can’t sleep with my back away from a wall.
It is not a time I wouldn’t be keen to forget.
There is no storm worth remembering to weather.

There is no storm worth remembering.

All the shortest summers,
I compare a love to a beautiful day,
Tempted temperatures; this artistry close to lust,
There's a careless wind of having nothing to say.

But summer's a bit short,
by these winter chills down my spine,
You leave so lovely; missing a bright complexion,
And of course; that lovely bright smile.

All that's fair; but feels dimmed, and trimmed,
Cut off from your love, I held to my very last,
Opened my eyes to yours; to feel I once dreamed.

But I do scare of beauty's fade; coming to our age,
When all our possessions are but empty, and cold,
Children remembering us as shadows under shade.

Time grows. And I've grown deep roots into love,
But love often is this constant battleground.

But I'll be one keen to fight all for you.