She runs rampant,
Dancing with the demons,
While the angels
Flutter dauntless above.

A combination of both,
She is,
Filled with endless, burning love.

Eyes of flames,
That lick at the lips,
And a mouth,
Of sinful wit and smoke.

She has a laugh,
That draws lovers near,
And snakes to Eden.

And her tears,
Which shakes the world,
And makes Heaven itself cry.

She is perfect.

And she is a monster.

She is the fiery one,
With six, great wings
To hold her high above it all.

Enjoy the view,
But do not be fooled,
She is the fiery one,
With the deepest depths to fall.

Art is so beautifully misunderstood,
You can't sing,
Unless your voice,
Is selling out stadiums.
You can't paint,
If your artistry isn't displayed in a gallery,
Locked away for the rest of time to see.
You can't play piano,
If you don't compare to Mozart
Or Beethoven, or Bach.
And, why would you ever,
Bother to write a poem,
If Shakespeare has
Already, lived and died,
And Emily Dickenson,
Has said her goodbyes?
Art is useless,
Unless you are great,
Art is meaningless,
Unless it can be bought and sold —
Capitalized, until the world is content.
That's what society has taught us,
But they so beautifully misunderstand.


And so,
We forget that art,
Is so, beautifully human.
As long as we have been here,
We've been creating,
Singing, dancing, growing
Our prose will be here, always,
Writing our names into the skyline,
Keeping us here,
Even when we fade away.
Art is what makes us human,
It's not for money or fame,
It's what proves we're alive,
And that we haven't changed
In a millennium.
The famous artists,
Never meant to be known,
They only ever meant,
To live.
And I am the same,
In my mind and soul,
I don't want to be recognized,
I just want to write,
And be me.

What am I but hollow?
This empty cage, this rusted prison
A phantom trapped within myself.
My bones are stripped bare,
And my soul is leaking,
Dripping away down the bars,
Wasting away, like a cigarette.
I am a criminal of my own identity,
Betraying myself at every turn.
Promises; Promises,
I've made myself a million promises,
And I have broken them, shattered them,
Torn myself up on the many remains.
And now,
Every, single, error haunts my soul,
Each one pressing me deeper down,
Pushing me harder, closer, to oblivion.
I trip under the weight,
Scrape my knees on rock bottom,
And point the blame at myself
This blood surely, I deserve to bleed.
Justification of one's actions,
By accusation of the mirror
Is the most dangerous act of self support.
I am crushed by the shame,
By the weight of my own mistakes,
My bones, my foundation, crumbling,
Like a disgraced version of Atlas.
I now live life, for that day,
Where all of my guilt fades like smoke,
And I am free, from my own blame.
Until then, I will tirelessly strive, fight, battle,
To be better,
Every moment,
Every day,
Melius esse; Melius esse.

Mother, I said something I shouldn't today
I wavered like water
One drop out of place

As I learned, I looked around 'til I knew every face
And all of the right things to say
I must be your daughter

Father, cold hands just keeping dragging me down
Collecting my anger
Like puddles of mud on the ground

Later, at least I can that I'm proud
Though it feels like a vice – to cool down like ice
I must be your daughter

a woman's entire existence
must be an oxymoron

"look the prettiest!"
don’t be vain.
"smile always!"
you're too naïve.
"stand tall!"
no, crouch down.
"we love a feisty girl!"
patience is a virtue.

"yes!"
no.
"Yes!"
n o .
"yes!!!"
NO.

we are a juxtaposition of
what we want,
and what is expected of us;
who we are,
and who we must be
to survive.

perfection is attained
and society satisfied
when a woman
turns herself
inside out
and
upside down.

after all,
don't you know -
opposites attract?

i am a museum of my own creation.
the parts of myself exhibited to the public
are moulded, polished, photographed,
whilst the rest of me lays
dusty and forgotten.

how can anyone ever truly know me
when i am only
a moment, a picture, a fleeting idea
encapsulated as a whole?

but none of it is real.
and if it's all falsehood,
then what am I?

She'll nail the audition, she always does
She even gets the lead more often than not,
But like clock work, her performance declines with each rehearsal
She can't hit the notes,
Her costume begins fitting funny,
Don't get me started on her choreography,
But she'll pursue, until she's booed
Off the stage on opening night.

And this is her curse,
She'll nail the first verse,
And have seemingly no control as she gets worse