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Mark Wanless Jan 2021
all observers are
i am i am creator
here now is just you
sophia Aug 2018
The morning birds sing to the rythm of her soft heart beat under sky
blue sheets

Warm air exerts from each nostril along with a yawn from her
baby doll lips

Gold framed women in paintings above her drop forward
over the headframe
in envy of her glamour

And the sun gleams against her cheek bones creating a halo around what already is an angel
empty seas Dec 2017
we: the observers
you: the victims
we can never know the pain
we will try
to understand
to give you love
and support
but that does nothing
you are trapped
trapped behind a glass door of suffering
we look on
but we
the pain
let your cuts heal, we will take care of the knife

there's been so much tragedy this year, and last year, and the year before that. This is just my take on it from the outside.
Emily Dec 2013
But where is the place for the people like us?
The artists, the cutters, the solemn observers.
Every INFJ. Every poisoned mind. Every social awkward with so much depth they just might sink.
The ones who have found their soul but are searching for their mind.
The ones who find their mind by losing their marbles.
The misrepresented and misunderstood.
The hurt and the happy.
With a requirement of so much patience and love that no one is willing or able to give.
The ones who make adjustments.
Who hit rock bottom and manage to get back up on their own.
The ones who fall too fast for something out of reach. They end up quietly crashing and burning.
The ones who are living under layers of paint; on their hearts and in their homes. Whose sweetness and innocence are buried somewhere underneath the paint, barely recognizable.
The ones who were born with a fifty year old soul.
Who have a biologically memorized speech that no one will hear; that no one can hear.

I ask you, where will they go, the people like us?

— The End —