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sunday morning
and belly unfilled still,
what's for breakfast?

view of the shadows,
wandering pair of
green eyes and
a dying rocky brain
wondering

why am i still here
in a virtual garden
full of calla lilies?
calla lily is a symbol of magnificence aka that's not me. not even close to that. and i'm insecure.
sitting pretty
awaiting their steeping tea,
whilst Ophelia hugged the trees
near the crystal clear resting rivers.
everyone loves a good cup of tea, even when someone left the earth.
is this dreary dormancy, or is this death?
for the candle's counting and fire's fading,
the bulb's broken and the light's leaving—
in the silence of makeshift soul sepulchre
i pictured those two angels weeping.
am i dormant, or am i dead? where's the old me? why am i growing backwards? why am i lost? i am now failing child, aren't i?
'tis the time where
pink roses lost colour
and laurel wreaths wilt;
old glory a mere story,
the Reaper rests under
weathered oaks and
cut cypresses;
watching foxgloves
and wormwoods grow
as I lie awake bleeding
with the amaranths.
trying (hard) to write in the language of flowers and plants.
the sun is waiting—
saturated grey curtains
stuck lovingly, still
the sun can't get their turn.
we are thespians in a masquerade,
spilling our thousand acts of charade
whilst the soul bleeds on a blade
yet we float, neither alive nor dead.

we are dolls in a tea party,
choking on liquid vacuity
our heads a barren ghost city
nameless, aimless, brimming pity.

our middle name is empty.
i don't even know what this means besides a complete void. seriously. my head and my poetry account are almost dead.
I am no blessed poet nor songstress,
a sleepless mess, a jest in
swaying haziness
of **** peach and pinkish bliss
where I danced in faux Lana
and Marina skins
winning a couple hearts
his, hers, theirs, and yours,
lone wolf in romantic *******.

When the night show's over,
bows all over,
no faux skins of blessed poets
and songstresses,
neither, no more.

In my own skin, I am the sleepless mess,
the midnight mortal carving her bliss
and distress,
with the lights of blessed poets
and songstresses,
in a multitude of metamorphoses.
I couldn't sleep, hence this brainchild was born. Even to this very second of my life, I want to be someone else. I want to be the people inspiring me. But then, the right thing is to be like them in my own way, not to be them. I am me, in my own skin.

Loving myself and loving what I do is a long, seems-never-ending journey, but I am still trying.
once upon a time,
seven princesses
and a dreaming dwarf
stood in the face
of a broken looking glass.
a short, vague piece. insecurity at its finest.
i can still smell the pungent air of
my old shoes on your two feet
and see the boulder on your
shoulder—hence the welcoming,
open door.

never mind my silence, see those
bottles you sent knocking me into
a soldier in a warzone, fighting for
my sealed freedom.

i am breathing fine and well within
the confines of my room walls and
warm blankets, and i will not beg
anew a soft, suede-covered
command.

i yearn a bow—a salute
to the space now.
i've had enough unwanted attention, case closed.
to the wailing winter winds, i whisper
then we chatter—no wonder
those passing through deemed me a lone goner,
chanceless of love knocking the door.

i am dead jaded over failing chases,
over hopeless Minotaur mazes,
of whirling harlequin feelings
dead jaded, romance has gone tasteless.

hear my voice from this warm solitary chrysalis
leave me be, singing my soul to the winds
for thousand times more—till it snows for the last.
i'm comfortable being alone, that's all.
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