Has your blood ever boiled
and burned the handle of your sanity?

I have w e i r d anxiety
And I don’t quite k n o w where to put it
I feel off
Like watching a black and white movie when you’re a kid with a theme that’s b e y o n d you and knowing that you don’t quite know what it’s about
A lack of an aboutness with yourself
Much about what I do and where I go and who I see
And triumphantly living this l i f e
As I w a n t
But feeling a l i t t l e far from m y s e l f

I’m writing a bookmaybe I should get back to it

Why does the moon hum a warm tint
in the darkest, coldest, empty night?

The frosty walk home is lonelier with its glow.
I am devoured by the cold and the lack of sound.

My exhale, like a ghost, tries to find a way home also.

I admit
I made
a mistake
But the only one I owe
an apology to
is myself
So there's no reason
for you
to wait
If I said
I'm sorry
that's not how I felt

I think I've soaked in far too
Many emotions today.
The sponge bleeds into
My own conscience and
I am ****** too deep.

I'm overwhelmed.
Someone else's tears
Well up behind eyelids
That should belong to me,
Or maybe they don't.

Someone else's fear
Leaves icy trails on
The skin that clothes
My ivory bones,
Or our bones.

Someone else's madness
Crept into my veins
And set them ablaze with a
Fury so bright it blindsided
The guardian of my mind.

Red, green, melancholy
Blues, they fill my head
Like a clouded rainbow.
Blue bleeds the deepest and
I need some type of shine.

I've had
         Just a
                 Little
                       Too
                             Much today.

i.
an ailment of the mind,
incorporeal, a ghost that flits between
worlds, festers and grows —
a thumping tumour.

ii.
sick, but not really sick.
(does it hurt? paracetamol might help).
you are exaggerated and foolish.
count your blessings.

iii.
potent to change reality.
stronger than any mushrooms.
a single thought, the words and the images,
gunslingers to misery.

iv.
hook that reels in,
boding some ominous fate.
fish out of water —
flippity-flop; people sunbathe around.

v.
plodding is what it is.
plodding through a tempest,
freezing, crackled skin,
watching everyone else walking in sun.

vi.
you want to scream but don’t.
you want to explain but don’t.
you let them form their own ideas
and agree. you feed on it.

She is the unsung lyrics,
the pieces of her favorite quotes stitched together.
When one plucks the lyre of her heart
melancholy melody soothes another heart.

She is a pallet full of rich and moody colors.
Sometimes she is bold like the streak of red of the sky at dawn
or delicate as soothing soft colored pastels.
At times she's vibrant
with her colors high on hue
and at times she is dim and quite.

She is contoured with passion;
whirlwind of colors
coaxing the brushstroke
as she is canvassed.

She is the evocative strokes
of a tempestuous soul
of curious contrast;
an exquisit chaos.

She is the raw,
broken tiles pieced together
into a mosaic
s intricate masterpiece like picasso's.

Her body
Her soul
is constantly moulding
sculpting into a phasing masterpiece.

She is an album;
a gallery.
She wasn't built to validate
to be understood
and loved by all
She's supposed to make you feel in the way she thought.

For she is the enigmatic narrative of her truth
and a beautiful ambiguity.