To play the heartstrings plays a song only we can hear,
To love the artist of words,

Every string you pluck,
Becomes our canvas.
Make us cry,
The world will read.

To love a writer,
Is to publish your deeds.

I like him
But I'm inlove with someone else
I want to talk to him
But I might get hurt the one that I love.

I thought he was the one
But he isn't beside me,
he was my childhood friend
he cared so much but that's it.

This is part of loving someone
at the wrong timing they said,
that moment when you know everything
but it seems I have to let go.

my eyes are red.

your touch feels meaningless.
your hug is without warmth.
when you speak to me,
it feels like,
you are doing it,
out of obligation.

I would rather not see you,
at all,
than witness you,
pretending to care.

a tear escapes my right eye,
as you leave.

Isn't making sense over so little irrational ?
Then again, with the constant change of life is there such a thing as being completely, or even partly rational to begin with ?
Perhaps not, all what is thought of it are social standards which in themselves differ from each culture in each country in a small world,
Those unlikely to advance are left in darkness all by themselves,
Rotting within the terror of their mind, shunned by interaction,
With the simple wish to be considered normal, to feel the way most of their many encounters of human beings do every single day,
As a result, they may further distance themselves and define each other as an inhuman, resented by life, losing the last light of hope,
Such is a cycle of despair, a downward spiral of lost emotions,
What does it take to enjoy just one more day, one more moment,
Before quitting it all the same, leaving without trace,
After all a demon like me has no place
In this beautiful world.

~ Umi

Burn this fabric
the weave of the grandest way
we wrap our secret selves in
and write little patterns
that somehow pushes apart
from the comfort of speech
to break the truth
into lie-able bits
that everyone can approve of
because they are pretty
then you will be hollow
with the desire
to tug on the dangling strings
that always itch
the nose of conscience
to be rid of the ******
the mold you have been force in
and you will unravel when it hurts
and you will unravel when it is quiet
you will become bare
just shape
just like everything else
and when you find
peace in your own decimation
a single flower will grow
behind your lifes eye
a memory of when you took root
in the self
a lense to see your life
as you mean to live it

I'm not quite sure how I got here,
Or why your stare makes fear feel safe.
It's like you can read the aura of me,
But maybe you just read my face.

You cling on tightly to my hand,
And search for secrets in it's embrace.
But, you'll find no truth in reading my palm,
It's all written upon my face.

I'm not courageous, and nor am I bold.
But hey, at least I've got your hand to hold.