I autopilot can pretend
I autopilot can feel
I may go about my chores
I may go unnoticed
Punctual is my middle name
But can you see what I feel
And can you feel what I see
Do you know what lies beneath the surface
You who are of many words
I could make you laugh
I could make you feel great
I could even cause myself to lose
To enable you to win
Deep within myself I hide
I dream of better days to come
I autopilot remain on mute throughout the days
I speak only when spoken to
I watch the moving of the trees from my favourite window in my home
And I dream ... simply dream ... just dream

God did not mean to give me a mouth.
He meant to give me hands, eyes, a heart
but not a mouth.
When I speak something in me bleeds. When I-
I speak, and my eyes fog over like glass.  
I can't see you standing there, I'm so sorry. Show me again, where did you put the bread?  

I feel like a thing that needs to be forgiven.

I feel so fragile sometimes.
I am trying to understand the
weight of the evil inflicted upon me.
It is heavy. I never understood that 'till now.

I wasn't meant to carry this weight, but I do.
I wasn't meant to speak the way I
so often will, but I do.

What can I say anymore?
I can't write without bleeding. I can't speak without knowing it is a wound. How can I communicate without tearing something open? I'm afraid of shutting up and looking for my language. If I decide to leave behind every word that hurts me, would I have any words left? Will it **** the little bit of connection with people I have left?

Listen.
I hope you forgive me for the little sadness I'll inspire in you.
I am afraid, but don't pity me. I am blossoming and becoming something else.
This, apotheosis, this becoming closer and closer to my own light.
It is a process that requires allowing death.
What must die must die. Allow grief.

I'll leave you with this:
If you slept next to me, it would be
much like sleeping with a letter under your pillow.
Every night, every night...

*"Here I write to you a list of cruelties I am capable of.
May you never forget:
I have made the flower so that it may blossom, and I have made the lamb so that it may eat it.
Blessed be the one willing to become.
Here, the flower. Here, the lamb."

- God

humans are the most pathetic species on earth,
they have no content;
no happiness,
no compromise,
no nothing.
so they ruin things over and over
and try to make themselves feel good by bragging about there misfortune,
and people pity them
when actually the ones who suffer the most are the ones who stay silent because they aren't allowed to talk.

If my hands were numb to your touch,
and my eyes were blind to your affection,
I would still compose love letters for you with my lips.
For I could never piece together,
the perfect words that express truly how much
I care for you.
So instead I speak in tongue.
Breathlessly sliding my mouth in and out of yours,
like the pause in between a sentence.
You're a book I don't want to put down.