I will call to you in the thorny wilderness,
If only you would comprehend each syllable of my name.
I will scream out in roses laid before me,
If only I didn’t know of the precision it takes to use a knife,
I will recite all the different train of thoughts that consume my being,
Often leaving me stranded in the abyss,
If only I was not a product of emotional turmoil,
If only you could turn my pages the way I longingly brush through those in my books,
But I’m just a lifelong series of disturbing motives,
So I will not call out to you,
Even in my darkest dreams,
Somehow I will find the strength to forgive you when I lay my entire being down,
But until then,
I pray that God forgives me.

It is a road less traveled yet even a
long abandoned pathway has to end.
As I tried to slowly raise my foot off the ground, I caught my breath in desperation to pause the moment
only to find out that time is a moving picture playing continuously without mercy.

There will be this one fascinating thing which will come to take over most of who you are only to pass,
Fluttering its wings to an escape,
Dissolving into air.
I try, withstanding all my will to resist, to anticipate the arrival of the dark reel of film where the closing credits will soon roll in.

My body shivers as I wish to preserve the remaining last few pages,
But shivering might break my bones and I know
That it is a terrible, torturous thing
To want someone who wants someone else.

With misty eyes, I now sit in my room,
While the birds and the trees choir outside,
Bidding to ravish my soul with joy,
As I recall my past, or think about my future.

How cruel my life is,
To give me such a feeling-
That I love solitude,
But loathe loneliness?

The moments I live, I die,
And the moments that have died,
Live, and make me sad,
Make me cry.

And if ever was I to be happy,
When is it, Will it come?
Or will I lie still, in my room,
Alone and Weeping,
On these scented books,
Whose pages now feel like blades-
Bright and blinding?

And then what,
Will I die too,
The same way as I live,
Lonely and Weeping...

she was so unaware
i couldn't help but stare
she was lost
she was emerged
in the world
within those pages

my gaze unintentionally fixated
on the girl
with green speckled eyes
and the loveliest lips i've ever seen

her fingers
so delicate
turning the page
quietly, gently
as if not to hurt
nor disrespect
the yellowing pages
and the tiny print

the range of emotions
so clearly displayed
through her expressions
as she read through
i was entertained
by the little smirk
which turned into
furrowed brows
then sorrowful sighs
as the story went on

she went through the emotions
and took me along with her

everyday since then
at 12:04pm
i look for the girl
in the library
hoping to catch a glimpse
of my
*literary fantasy

Talk to me about history
The lawless and the just
Years that remained a mystery
Exposed by hate, power and lust

Show me all the written stories
Those full of dust, yet still true
The words of generations
That withered as they grew

I found them as I found myself
In pages much older than I
They put time upon a shelf
and left the wisdom there to die

Talk to me about history
The rise and fall of man
Life remains a mystery
That we still struggle to understand

You inspire me to keep writing.
You inspire me to continue fighting for what "I" belive in.
You make me want to prove you wrong.
To show you I'm so much more than a torn page in a book.
To show you everything I do doesn't come from a dark place.
What I listen to, what I write & what I say. You belive it comes from an evil place.

Why?

Song: James Arthur X
By: Long Live The King

I am words written on blank paper,
The words are there but no-one can see them until they are spoken.
The girl in the back of the classroom, unnoticed
Until she can open her mouth wide enough to sing with the chorus.

I am the one they call afraid
When Destiny knocks at my door
I can't find the words to even begin to say
I'm just not yet ready
But once I am, my God, I'm unstopable.

Isn’t it amusing
How a blank page
Holds endless stories
Within its being
The unending possibilities
Widows and orphans
Prose and poetry
Hidden underneath
A blanket of colors
Waiting till someone
Draws one out
And gives it life
As the rest venture
Into new homes
Waiting beneath the surface
To be born
So they can breathe life
Into another being

All the blank pages
With untold words
Dancing beneath the horizon

It beats with the sound of whispering pages,
scrawling pens through passing ages.
With blood of ink that curls and flows,
in words or in symbols that nobody knows.
My paper heart that beats apart word by word in me.

Each beat is a chapter, each word so true,
Once Upon a Time It beat just for you.
It beats out now stories in it's leather case,
a soft, hard cage to keep the pages safe.
A paper heart that bleeds apart, not for eyes to see.

The ink is pain, the ink is love,
the ink is life, the ink is blood.
Hear my words, feel the ink,
judge my words. What do  you think
My paper hart that falls apart, so may it set me free.

Ink for blood, a paper soul,
a leather case, beats to a goal.
To let me live, every day
I need my heart, so leave it this way.

My paper heart right from the start
it's who I am, beats so I can
stay alive, and maybe thrive.

It beats, it bleeds, it falls apart.
My
Perfect
Patchwork
Paper
Heart.