I'm glowing with insecurities and inpurities.
My depression slows the time of my processings and duties as a clean window.
I have smudges and dirt spots in the miles!
I clean and I clean, but the ***** returns.
I can't erase them,
I'm covered in worms!
King of dirt and infamous germs.
I want to slide out,
I squirm and I squirm.
My terms in return are to accept and watch myself burn.

The world said be brave,
While stresses,tensions,depressions whispered in her ears-You are a naive!!
It was not her steps that faltered,
It was the very world that swirled.
Malicious hands gripped her tight,
She could hear her heart shatter,
When her own told her she was a Blight.
She tried desperately hard to get up,
Everyone and everything had left her,
Yes even her Luck.
The hilt of the knife felt so warm,
The cords and ropes were calling out her name,
The fire in the grate drew her closer and closer and closer,
At last she was gone.
No breath.
No pain. No hope. No despair.
She had vanished into thin air..

Yo la quiero, la amo
Y sé que siente lo mismo por mí
Pero hay veces que dudo de ese amor
No porque no lo dice lo suficiente
No porque no lo enseñe todos los días
Pero porque no creo en mi misma
No veo lo que usted ve
No escucho lo que usted escucha
Estoy toda rota
En pedazos
Destrozada
En necesidad de milagros
No me veo capaz de hacer algo bien
Una buena para nada
Una imbécil
Cerrada y callada
Soy incapaz de
Hacer
Hablar
Escuchar
Pelear
Soñar

The inner critic
protects me from
reality and success;
It knows best.
It reminds me of
my hopeless plight,
my dark destiny,
my night of a
thousand storms.

Councillors say,
"Examine those thoughts.
Challenge them, are
they rational? "
I nod and smile,
and somewhere there
is a sparrow in me
that wants to sing,
that agrees with
the blue skies, and
the trees, and the wings
that have carried it
away from the pain.

But then the critic
and its minions
chatter away, and
remind me of failures,
they say,
"The play has already been written.
You're just doing your part-
your small walk-on part.
You don't get to rewrite it.
It's been written, it's finished.
You being a writer must appreciate
irony, isn't it ironic;
Thomas, no matter
how bad you want it,
you can't have it.
It's been decided, it's predestined,
long before you were born.
You lose, some win, but not you."

I faintly hear the dying song
of the sparrow, as I rise once again
and stumble towards the abyss.

She feels like she's slowly drowning
From the sea of questions left unanswered
Crashing like gigantic waves, reeling her
Into the unfathomable depths of her mind

Trying hard to reach shallow waters
Seeking out to glimpse the moon
But the ocean has got a strong grip on her
That an unwanted feeling slowly loom

Entrapped in it's cold yet peaceful demeanor
Slowly submitting to the phantom's silent gaze
The girl that tirelessly tried to swim back ashore
Succumbed herself to the ocean's masked embrace

So, tired, she closed her eyes
The song of the sirens is so captivating
Snared by the ocean's tranquil facade
"I guess...I wouldn't mind staying"

Random,
hidden from behind
move from side
to hide,
withered with an empty
swoon, to slide from an open hand
to hand,
whispers from adjacent hopes
the frequency...
now feeling hollow from inside.
Silent steps from a small space
to a small place,
withstanding the indifferences
with discerning gait.
Housing the apathetic thoughts
constructed from the sphere
centered in our mush,
the spiraling of gravities conveying
all of these random afflictions,
I gave
to you.