Yeah... I’ll be the reflection of one’s depression – to hotspot their
emotions, for the ones that lack real expression. I am a weapon by
the impression of my pen; I demand love and attention – so ****
possessive; these words are my greatest possession.

My mind… my mind is just a book, and I feel so overbooked.
And the dreams in my eyes are overlooked, while I dream about
my death knowing it’s never too good. But we feel so misunderstood –
hoping not to leave pieces of ourselves. Life dares to cut me down
like a tree, and sometimes I wish it would.

I’m two doors swinging in the milestones of a lonely road. I threw
my rocks at my reflections – their irregular metre, is such an ugly
ode. Still if I reflect other's depression; I’ll transport it around the
globe, and carry their load.

I am their depression to be showed. Yeah, we're depressed, but I
doubt a lot of you would really know!

bending pictures to fit into someone else’s frame –
their life… is it not so beautiful from the viewer’s eyes
in some profound way, they must think of me in the
same kind of way

our pictures are stained,

with shame, pain, loss, hardships, desires, envy, bitterness
but you don’t know this of me… you get to watch the picture
while I painted all its vivid features
I don’t know this of you… cos I watch your picture believing
its much more unique – but you and I are pieces that are

                    incomplete.

__

Genuine friends are much rarer than the fingers on
one hand — as only a handful can be counted upon.
They could be as numerous as the stars scattered
across a moonlit expanse, yet only a select few truly
cast their glow upon our lives.