The architecture that goes into building a human I will never understand.
For it is too astonishing for anyone to wrap their head around.
The time, effort and beauty that goes into making even the most evil people.
Everyone has their own beauty.
And their own attraction to others that were built the same or complete opposite way.
In a long and complicated process making them who they are on the inside and what they portray to be on the outside.
Because the exterior can only cover so much before what is on the inside shimmers through the smallest crack.

Chaotic and hectic
To deal with people around me
Can’t cope with this frenzy
Perhaps in solitude I’ll be free

They talk, they deduce
It isn’t helping cos it’s just a ruse
So clouded by the spree
In solitude alone, I can see

I want to talk, and sing too
Not much, just a word or two
Don’t need an audience please
Talking in solitude, that’s me

Don’t push me to the rim
With thoughts just so grim
Don’t barge in my space
In solitude I want to be

When the world turns to be
A freer, just calmer space
I want to step out and feel
What pain solitude has been

And when I’ve made it, alive
Out of my solipsistic life
I want to turn into a new leaf
Embrace a new me, no pain nor grief!

We are an echo of our past
Like an empty hanger in the closet
All bare and cold
Memory serves as the foundation to something beautiful
As long as those shoulders
Bare something new.
And our closet doesn’t stay empty but rather collects a rainbow of hues.

Her name was Mystery
She loved poetry, so I thought I’d write her some

Hangnails always lived on the sides of her thumbs
The same thumbs she used to type up her future book ideas with

Music flowed through her body like waves in the ocean

She fell in love with characters she’ll never meet
But she had so much hope

Optimistic, she was

She danced with the hillsides of mountains
And taught me about aliens

She swore she was from Elsewhere
I guess Mystery is trapped inside a fake reality
A world she created herself

Mystery loved movies
She told me she wanted to be in some, one day
But I told her she didn’t need to be fictional
And she said
“Maybe I already am”

i loved you
with everything that i was, but
that was the problem:
there was nothing of me left
to be my self.

every other time
i have defined myself by aiming at what i want to be
and then moving towards that.
i have sketched definitions in murky biro
on rumpled pages of my notebooks
and then taken my aim.
i have written long-winded histories
describing the stories i want to unfold
the way i would want others to speak
as they told the story of how i was when i walked in.
i have used evocative words:
"creator" "badass" "gypsy"
to describe what i am, in some cases -
my race and the race
that i run, but also
the way that i want to be, and the navigation of
the path that i want to find.
but now there is no defining
no definition will do
because this is not me sculpting myself again
out of lumps of clay that i pushed back last time
and now am causing to reform.
i'm not even made of clay anymore;
i am not malleable, but stripped raw -
pulled down to the most basic of essences,
and yet i do not know
what that is.
perhaps in time i'll find out,
but for the moment
i don't even know how to try.

He called me beautiful,
said it matter of fact.

I have grown to believe,
I have made myself learn,
that I am more than a face,
that people are more than that.

I am a soul,
I am thoughts and words.
I am a daughter of God-
And then flesh.

I don't need validation,
because it is empty.
Shouldn't need to be told who I am.

But sometime's we're weaker,
and lose sight of our centre.
He called me beautiful.
And I remembered.