i miss loving you; i miss the calm and easy and content way of just kissing in the blue hour — clothes, falling out of flushing skin; mine was a map of scars named after estranged people, and yours, an anomaly of carnelians breaking at the softest touch.

and yet, nothing hurt enough. not the fading autumn days leaving us to fall apart in october. not the poems that painted this love to be more beautiful than it actually was. not the carnelians, breaking everywhere.

and i miss loving you, but this october rain isn't cleansing — it just falls cruelly on a heart too eager to break itself.  i miss loving you, but all these blue hours have corrupted what's left of your first tainted kiss. i miss loving you, but betrayal still rests comfortably on my skin: a map of scars named after people. a map of scars cut by carnelians. a map of scars named after you.

and this october rain isn't healing; it's just cruel.

it's just cold.

— fray narte

Music is an art
An expression of our heart
Music is a melody
We feel it from the very start
Music is an escape
From all of our worries
Music is an emotion
That creates happy memories

With Music
Amazing people meet
Without music
Life is incomplete

Society is finally falling apart at the seams, fighting and rioting and more violent scenes.
People are speaking but nothing is changing, there's still so much chaos but no one is waking, the problems we're facing aren't near to erasing, yet there's fleeting, retreating, the passion is fading.
There is pious bias, harm to hide us, a strive to be righteous, pleas for quiet.
Pressure to conform to the norm and perform in good form amidst thunderstorms and swarms of people you're supposed to trust to judge you.
Because I guess they're the ones above you.
They don't love you or trust you or even speak up for you, they are the ones you believe.
They are society.
The root of propriety, the cause of anxiety, the eyes who watch silently, observing the sights to see, shaming variety, faking priority, escaping notoriety.
Replacing humility and civility with hostility and words that are sickening.
Is it worse to idolize normality or demonize insanity, for both are a tragedy.
I guess a cake's not as good without all the frosting and you can't be a leader without being called bossy so might as well put on a show for the souls who see what you do, your every move, the choices you choose.
The cause may be lost, at what cost?
You've carved out your flaws from your heart.
Pause.
Don't change who you were from the start.
Don't conform to the norm 'cause you're fine on your own and society's lies will soon catch up to greet you, faceless faces running to meet you.
Exhale.
You're still there.
It's not fair now but I swear further down, things will work out.
We always put the blame on society with dubiety but it's clear to see that's rightfully so.
But what people forget is the cycle that's set is all in our heads, and will stay that way til we mend our mistakes and eventually learn how to bend it.

Walk on babe, the night will find you soon enough. But, do not give in so kindly- it seeks to play with you for 100 hours, or 100 years; perhaps 100 years and 100 hours, I don’t know…. my glasses fell off. The best way to say it: if the day is temporary, so are you, and the night will swallow everything, from common skin to rare hues.
Don’t pull your punches with nature! Don’t let that primeval smell defeat you or good God- get a kick out of you. Nature is the piece of furniture that you bought, not the other way ‘round. So, how do you feel? Icicle fingers, sap bearing veins, rebar arms, tenderloin body, washboard neck, prison gate mouth, airstrip nose, typhoon eyes, telephone ears, coniferous hair, freedom’s mind. You owe it to nature, she coddles you.
A funny thing, then: the lifetime of a dream. Where love, bliss, sorrow, *** are not unknown, but as uncanny as they can be. Old friends may sleep it off and give you a cheque and a kick out the front door, but don’t you know what you were in their beds for? It was something true, and if you were the only one to find it in that pile of quick/messy lovers, it is truer still. So walk on babe, the technicolour night has left you, but in its hazy laboured breath, it promised to return. It swore to explode all over you- what can you do in return?

if i could
i would kiss away the pain
with poetries and prose
for all i know is write
until all the tears are out dry

but i couldnt