Such a delicate heart, like a flower. So bright and red, welcoming the world. Petals open, ready to accept the universe and be one with the seasons. The world began breaking her down. Pulling her petals, blocking her sun, stealing her sunshine and rain to grow. Crushing her to pieces. Taking all she had. Her heart's beating slowing to silence. Her life being taken, her soul drained like a flower starved of fresh water. The world slowly stomping on her, crushing her, picking at her pieces, leaving her with nothing but pieces of petals impossible to put back together. Leaving her to die, the world had taken all she had. A flower, crushed. A pure existence tainted. The cruel world had poisoned her, leaving nothing to save her.

writing with a bent and broken pen
with dying, faded ink
yet somehow is still reaching the paper
sometimes i don't know what to say
i just know i need to say something
however eloquent or ******
however my words want to shape me

i write when im sad
i think its not bad

i write when im broken
tears on the words ive written

i write when im happy
especially when i feel sappy

i write because i love to.
not because i want to.

So, you wanna be a poet;
Well, tell the truth.

in the lonely hours,
in the dead of night when we’re left with memories
too painful to comprehend
& we’re led to believe that this is the end
or that there is no end.
no end to the fight
no path that leads us to the light
that we so desperately seek
we slow dance to the notion that there’s more to this life than pain
whilst our hearts are trapped in locks & chains.
the morning birds sing our victory song,
& the chimes remind us that we belong.
we ache with uncertainty that this is all there is
until we remember we have something stronger
something inside us,
among the maps of constellations that lead to somewhere, anywhere
there’s that spark of hope we find in despair
when pushed to our limits
we find in our hearts
our human spirit.

- emily rose.

Some things are meant to end, even if they're a few steps away from happenning.

Likewise, you with me.

We could happen. We could be something.

But the reasons you are in, the reasons you wept over with at night won't let you let us be us.

And I understand that.

I don't see you with
that pretty face anymore.

I now see you with a
shadowed soul that's pure and fragile,
a heart that beats with a thousand fragmented shades of love.

No, I don't see you
with that smile anymore.

I now see you as a dream, just a dream-- just waiting to finally come true to life.

if you are ever at a bus
stop then take a good look at the person not standing near
everyone and know that this person is a
writer. know that their hands are in
pain and know that they have cried themselves
dry in front of darkened
mirrors because they can’t stand the sight of
themselves. know that the night into which their lover
fled is that which owns their
soul. they know much more than
you yet they would give anything
not to understand. they’re wearing long sleeves for a
reason and they are taking the
bus only because they know that their life has no
purpose, no more than that of an abandoned
cigarette. know that these people with the very melancholy
eyes and the pigeon-toed
feet are writers and that they will love
you even when they can’t
love themselves.