Was i born to write?
To transcribe syllables from thought and mind,
To breathe and bring life,
And at the same time
Wage war with
And those against?
To cement myself in a comfortable coffin and suffocate in the absence of light?
Or was i born to pull back the night
And paint violent colors of red
And
Yellow
And
Orange
And
Call it the morning sky?
Well i regret to tell you,
that i neglected to tell you
that i tremble.
And not just from freight.
A paintbrush- i can't hold tight.
Instead, let my fingers find letters- my favorite is I.
Let my fingers find letters
And I'll string together
What lies beyond
Clouds, and the highest high.
The sun and the stars.
A parallel planet,
And it's inferior nights.
An alien planet,
And our life through their eyes.
So miniscule,
At most benign.
Let my fingers find letters
And i will create
A line.
I will bend it's shape,
Perfect it,
And let it sing it's praise.
Let my fingers find letters.
I will captivate.

it should have been you,
the one who shines and paints stories--
never the same way twice--
not the quiet one
whose eyes are like mine,
dark and bitter as spiced chocolates.

but I guess I'd had enough of bright, lovely people
who burn through you and expect you to last.

I fell for a cynic's smile and a dreamer's heart,
whose story is broken in almost all the same places as mine,
and was told whisper by whisper along hours of dusty, unlit roads,
just as my heart was given letter by letter, step by step,
over plates of antipasti and all-too-short train rides.

but I was too late;
I found my love sitting at your feet,
listening to your stories,
and waiting for the one that begins with his name.

This isn't my makeup
This is my war paint. I put it on everyday so i can remind myself i am fighting a loosing battle with the world.

Beautiful girl spending her days in the dark. She powders her face and adds winged eyeliner, hoping to one day fly out of this town when she grows wings of her own. She lives in a small town, but her heart seems to belong to the sea. Like The Little Mermaid she hopes to find love on land, but the tides constantly pull her back to her home in the forest. She’s in the middle of nowhere, where the seashells are hundreds of miles away and Prince Eric refuses to save her. Her innocence was taken long ago, when she painted too many pictures and the trees were her best friends; she learned that trees are cut down to make pictures and that not all of them can get framed.

With a blank canvas
I start my life
With nothing holding me back
I paint my life

I yearn for this canvas
For it dictates my colours
Be it rainbow or mono
I am counting the moments

With a fresh start
I rewrite my story
From dull to light
I await for this chance

So come with me on a journey
With fun and excitement
With sorrow and pain
I shall walk my way through
All for that one minute of fame.