All i see
Uncovering in front of me
Tearing at the seam
Colors colliding
All around
Feel the sound
Frequency released

Turn around
Its you,
Staring into
The mirror reflecting
Hi, hello.
Finally facing she.
klarity
the ones that sees beneath

shadows, coming to rise
Inner child, always resides
within the frame,
& she hides,she silently cries
she hates the way she thinks
I feel her pain, i want to comfort her
Must keep her safe.

Yet, her patience grows thin
I can't keep playing pretend.
can only run from myself
For so long
Until there's no more distractions
to save me from my own self.
Sure,
Try to put the reflection on the shelf.
Did the old you fade away?
Or are you just lying to yourself
Rejecting & silencing the parts of you
that still need help.
---
Keep running
Keep wishing
Keep waiting
The clock
Still ticking
Keep dancing
Until your sweet ever afters
you must see your shadows,
And not run astray
Time to integrate.
A healthy array
Of truth and acceptance

Instead of judging
Seek to understand
Is what i always say,
How about i apply it to
The one who's typing this
The who cant sleep
The one who feels the emptiness
And the bliss
Yet feeling irate.
Shes a paradox wrapped in skin
She loves herself yet she hates
& she's trapped in her brain.

What causes her to act in ways.
That she will probably rregret
Tomorrows yetserday..

Old radio occupies
desolated shop, unmoved
When it opens, transmission
change from time to time, untamed
Fuzzy haze filled the airwaves
I still listen to its sounds

Buzz, it says where have you been
Buzz, it replied from business
A short break from the DJ
Here comes Gymnopedie 1
I played the keyboard, you're right
Buzz, to another channel
Conversation between me
and unnamed friend as we dive
Into the vastness of the
universe. "We're not alone,"
I started, looking above.
"We are just a grain of sand."
"But where is everybody?"
Pondered he, puffing smoke in
the stillness of pitch darkness.
I nodded, "maybe because
Advanced civilizations
sought to isolate themselves."

White noise swallowed the broadcast
I am here again sitting
in the cobweb-covered shop
Blur faces from the window
Cars intersect, then part ways
My body yearns for repose
They say sleep rest our psyche
But I know my wire so well
Sleep does not rest my psyche
My frequency pilgrimage
Across the land, sea to sea
I can hear the radio
Constantly, halted to flee
An unfamiliar station
entered the box of audio
At full volume, I'm all ears.

asking questions about things
that shouldn't concern you,
just like your apparent lack of decisiveness
doesn't concern anyone else.
it's your own fault to try an live with,
give it your best shot.
so what if the score
has been rigged from the start,
so what if the odds are never on your side.
your mind is a weapon
that's always aimed at its host.
you don't know how to hope for the best,
but you've gotten so good
at preparing yourself for the worst.
asking questions about things
that were designed to hurt you,
looking for a weak spot.
drowning in hesitation,
hoping to run out of oxygen
right before your own consciousness
takes the chance to tear you apart.

To dream of about suicide is a wage to not wake up dead, a struggle
to rise from the depths of despair. In the heart of a collapsing
mansion, I find myself amidst a vast courtyard, pondering if this
opulence will ever be mine. A magnificent tennis court lies before me,
its fragile barrier barely containing the grotesque monsters lurking
beyond. They cling to the fence, their claws poised to strike, yet I can’t
help but grin, for these fiends are but reflections of my own tortured
psyche.

Where shall I find solace in dreams, when each dream is just a false
awakening loop; each threshold leads me further into a deeper
threshold? On the sixth day of my futile escape, I realize my
confinement is not of brick and mortar, but of the haunting messages
buried within the restless slumber I can never fully embrace.

                                     This life is a false narrative!

it's a place you don't recognise anymore;
your mind,
the pathways, formerly known
as such and such,
you gave them names yourself,
you assigned tasks,
you decided their fate.
and now it's all different all of a sudden;
and now it's no longer familiar,
like a new suit
you've never once worn.
and you don't know what weapon to choose,
how to protect yourself
in this one-sided war
in your mind.
the trenches,
so dutifully dug out,
all prepared for the day you lose,
are gone,
and you don't recognise this place anymore.

How deep does adoration run?

When is something fully selfless?

If the blade had pierced an inch to the side,

If the metal had torn through blood as much as fat,

Would the deed have been done?

If the precious life had spilled like ichor,

If the slitting had ended in death,

Would she have gone through,

The way the blade went through her flesh?

How selfless is selfless, really,

When it comes at little cost,

To anyone other than the others?



When is such harm justified?

What else to we see, and let slip?

How often to we twist and turn the words in our mouths,

Spin them around in our minds until they make sense to us?

How often to we change the core of a phrase,

Puff ourselves up with false knowledge and say that no,

I was in the right all along?

How often are we ourselves Orual,

Shunning the Gods for mistakes we’ve made ourselves?

How often to we like to think we’re Psyche,

Calm and fearless in the face of prosecution?

How often are we, ourselves, the prosecutors?

And when do we let it end?

How many times have we been no more than the Fox,

Scorning those who believe in what we call fairy tales,

Modern magic to which we love to turn up our noses?

How long does an act last, I wonder,

Before it becomes as real as the skin we wear on our bones?

How much of our reality becomes shrivelled,

Hiding in our veins the way Orual hid behind the Queen?

How many times, I ask,

Is that truly safer than the alternative?

How many of us hide behind shallow veils,

Dig the old selves barren graves?

How much of our life is no longer real?

How long will it last?



And think, for a moment,

Of the truth you may believe in?

How often does it shine like the oil lamp,

How often are we revealed and punish?

How often to we destroy when seen?

How many times, do you think,

We spend setting up impassable trials,

To keep ourselves hidden?

How many people, do you think,

Have truly past those courses?

Who do you actually know?

And who, reader, truly knows you?

How much of ourselves is a veil?

Do we even know who we are?

Like an onion whose layers have lifted
The Self with sharp vision and gifted
Is shedding its skin
To expose what’s within
It’s consciousness pure and unscripted