i wouldn't say i'm the jealous type
i would say i'm a writer
no one's muse
admiring from afar
hugging walls like close friends
more familiar with the architecture
of disappointing myself
than laughing with others

i wouldn't say i'm the jealous type
i would say i'm a work in progress
withheld on a canvas
half-finished strokes
vibrant in places that matter
dull smudges in spaces
unsure where to go next
traffic jams in my cerebral
creator and destroyer

i wouldn't say i'm the jealous type
i would say i'm an artist
expressing myself in ways
that others can't quite comprehend
but speak volumes of my soul
through more than
[words]
phrases things pronouns
breathing is painful
without creating
[controlling]
emotion
becoming vulnerable
in a comfort zone
people don't understand
[me]
stepping outside of my art
is painful and draining

i wouldn't say i'm the jealous type
i would say i'm ******* tired

A fancy tuxedo and a black leather glove for each hand, could this be Patrick Bateman? or punk in a band?
no, it's Digital Man.
Yes a real man, with a screen head of course, would you look at him this strangely if he was a horse?.
He just goes about his day, and people judge and take pictures of him in each and every way.
He just wants to be treated like everyone else, and not put on display like some little mouse.
Why is society so blind and judgemental and cannot see, that I'm just like him and he's just like me?

A story of a boy
Adolescent, flowering glass heart, surrounded by stone
Green-eyed misery that stayed in the back of my mind
When I didn't want him to
He was like that;
It only takes one kiss
From his tender lips:
The forest-eyed catastrophe engulfs you whole
Those emerald daggers sink into your throat
Trailing painfully down into the pit of your stomach
Then slither back up into your lungs,
At last, sinking your heart all the way down to the ground
The Earth-eyed nightmare seeps into your skin
Writhing its roots into your veins
Living there forever
Digging its branches into your bloodstream

Taking him out would tear you apart.

I don't know anymore .
Who to believe who to not .
I just don't feel like me anymore .
I don't .
- Adaa Sayed

I saw her .
But she never told me .
I loved her .
She said the same thing .
My mother .
She was .
Made slave by someone ,
I loved to call dad .
One night with a knife ,
I saw her .
Perhaps that was the last of her .
That knife was used to **** her .
She didn't **** herself .
She didn't run for help .
Because she stood there for me .

Where the truth is doomed by lies ,
Hands are shook with malice.
And hope is forever haunted,
Jury is there to harass .
Deaths occur day and passing night;
Still the girl wore flamboyant,
Help is nowhere proceeded.
Wax is melted ,
Thoughts are already poisoned.
Still the girl was drunk in venom , while going to her friend's home .
Who says the substandard boy is to blame, who thought of her as a jester .
Nasty, humiliated, unpleasant is all they can say but ;
Still who helps her when she suffered.
Unlucky is the girl who had this fate , they bark !
And leave her to burn in this filthy fire which gives no life to the dead .
Wounding and funny .
One's just dessert is still not served ,
Hour and minute,
Second and jiffy,
All we do is to wait , when will he be put to death ?
- Adaa Sayed

They cheat .
That's how they are .
They take what's yours' ;
They make it theirs .
How pitiful !
Such vile people ,
I say .
- Adaa Sayed