She dresses in black,
smudging eyeliner on
her soft eyes.
Applying dark shades of lipstick
and leave her black hair to be caressed
by the ice cold wind.
She wears a cold attitude
and turns her kind heart
to stone, all to resonate intimidation
just to avoid being hurt.

You told me not to be “sensitive” 
So here I am trying to deflect,
but I end up absorbing the pain of your words,
the intricacies of this world,
pretending not to care about what is said 
and has happened.

I hold the tears in,
place a mask on my face,
and a lock on my lips
so that none would spill.

But now I feel numb
unaware of how I feel
and unable to cry.

Now, here you are
calling me emotionless.

I guess there was no in between;
either a heart of ocean
or a heart of stone.

The sun burns and so do I
What use in complaining is there?
Leaves turn to dust
Stone will become mud
And all
things must
eventually
end.

Raindrops, water plops, let’s go see the ocean.
Let’s go skip a stone 14 and 11. Let’s go find a way so we could go to heaven.
Raindrops, falling on my face.
Raindrops mixing with my tears.
Tears falling into the water well.
Rose gardens, little girls picking them carefully.
But the rain is falling, and the girls are crying and the roses are wilting.
The wind is crying and I am crying and the well is crying and the roses are crying.
Raindrops, water plops, let’s go see the ocean.
Let’s go skip a stone, 14 and 11

There's a tear in my soul
And the stuffing's falling out
Surprised you're not surprised
I was never real
Eyes of glass
Heart of gold
My flesh is made from silicone
Imperfect, blemishes and wrong
Hands are cold
Warm as stone
I was never real
Yet I still feel alone
I need this lie
To bleed itself out
And cut through this flesh
Of silicone

           Love                                  is                      
wr­itten                    in                    stone
       which                                slowly
             fades                          to
                   sand                   ..                                          
                    ­     ..                 ..
                             . . . . . . .
                              . . . . . .
                                . . . .
                                  . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Veins of sheets,
entangle us.
She tells me,
without sound.

Without pause,
she speaks,
in the backseat,
under frosty moonlight.

She feels me,
in blurry crowds
and through
crisp empty roads.

Follow her voice,
through mornings
painted gray.
She tells me.

Smiles with her eyes,
it's audible,
almost divine,
she glows.

She lets her hair down,
a breath of gold,
sweet and comforting.
You’re safe.

She is there,
solid as stone.
She is here,
for me.