And then she realised that
All stories die with the people who made them...

What a devastating truth to know that so many wonderful stories lie between the dust of had-been peoples.

There is no great mystery to life.
We do not all have some greater purpose
Or some all important place in this world.
Some of us are just here.

This huge pressure of making a difference,
The gnawing need to make an impact,
To not be forgotten when we turn to dust
Is an all consuming anxiety

There is no riddle to the beating of your heart,
No conspiracy to the air in your lungs,
You are breathing, your heart is beating, and you exist.
Sometimes that is all there is to it

We are not all destined for greatness
And the realisation that we are one of the many,
Is more horrifying than any else.

We fight with all we have,
We lose the things that we never had.
Life is one submission after another,
We aim for one, but achieve the other.
We are all here standing,
Ready to take our number,
Completely unaware the we are all going under.
The will to fight is nothing but illusion,
The want to continue is born of confusion.
We all stand strong,
Yet in the end we fold.
We all talk a big talk,
But only our words are bold.
We can give up now,
And be forever content.
Or we can continue,
And be further broken and bent.

Dear poet..
Ever notice how the only way you can understand your emotions is by writing them down?
Or is it just me?

Before I write...
My mind is a jumbled up mess... a whole jigsaw puzzle.
But once that ink touches the paper
The confusion fades.
The pieces link up.
And I can finally see the whole picture.

My soul craves for written words.
My soul is inked.

i'm gay.
no. i can't be.
i must be staright.
ok fine not straight.
but there's still no way i'm gay.
that ****'s just not okay.
maybe I can call myself bi
and suddenly it all seems right
i did though honestly really try.
but no, definitely not straight
which should be okay.
i shouldn't be scared to go to my parents and say.
mum, dad.
i'm bi.
i shouldn't be judged by the public eye.
for my decision not to date a guy.
the word love isn't up for debate.
regardless of who i choose to date.
love is always the same.
love is love.
it's the butterfly feeling you get in the pit of your stomach each time you see them.
it's the fear in your heart that they might not always be yours.
it's the hope you have for the future.
the smile you see on their face.
love is just that. love.
i've finally accepted myself for who i am.
why can't you do the same ?

I always take a deep breath, close my eyes and let that feeling take over me.

Every day, only for a few seconds, I allow my body to remember your touch, allow my mind to remember your voice, yet I’ll never let my heart remember your love.

The bruises are long gone from my skin, the wounds healed by time, however my heart is hardly beating, barely holding on. It took me a long time to realize the anguish I found myself in, an eternity to uncover the many masks you wore with me.

There was a finesse in your abuse, an artfulness to your ways. You would soften your blows with tender words, softly touching what you already hurt.

For days, weeks and months, I stayed. I stood by you, blindfolded, numb to the constant pain, used to the steady flow of fear cursing through my veins.

I loathe that I let you in, let you break me down repeatedly but most of all, I hate that I love you.