Breathe it out;
a sigh tossed through a wind
struggling and bending;
rustling fruitless treetops,
and turning dead leaves with roars.

A collision of warmth against cold.

fond of fire
like a bond; tightly knit
and brightly burned,
until war spreads its fingers
and its light
is the only thing in vision.

scarred red with heavy scowls,
like the moon and its ventures; the sun, and the places touched by its warmth.

home lay in chaos, with corners written in orange,
and walls done in blood.

tear the scape to it's heart,
and poison soil to a grave.

heavy curtains of smoke
dream and cling to halls,
sickened and thick
are my ears to these walls
"hurry child, bless them,"
voices marred and screamed
painful in their volume,
"miles and miles heaved;
your hands to be condemned,
your feet to tire and bleed,"
vicious in their pith,
"for you own not your breath,
nor a fraction of your mind."

I don't want to be something, I want to be someone*
I found that written in my bio book
To be someone
to matter
isn't that what everyone wants?
no one wants to be something
an object
used
sadly I never feel like a someone
I feel like a wall most of the time
I'm there, supporting
but no one talks to a wall
no one cares about a wall
people lean on walls
and walls protect people from outside forces
but no one protects the wall
That's why I'm the wall.
I'm there for support, but no one's there to support me.
I guess I really resonate with the quote above, I don't want to be an object
I don't want to be used, I want to be someone not something....
I wonder when I'll no longer be a wall
when I'll be a person
alive

A faith to laws;
victim to burdens
and heavy with flaws,
yet sails seas in sleep,
breathing untouched miles,
A life from mans keep
with plentiful isles.
Under in dream, away from toil.
Relief is her coastlines and seagulls,
ebonies and greens,
pastels and neons,

pure to the seam

and whole.

Impressionable and young
with passions plentiful,
yet still empty to cause,
and violent alone.
inwards: an expression out
ranges in colors, with apprehension of variety,
yet tasteless
and bound to fears
existing ever since her image
was built up.
An idea of youth and it's contents.
What circumstances, love.
Apparently, your decision of uphill or downhill is now. bright and early.

oleander pale
in love with the scarlet
ardent against the gale

empty walls
chipping their paint
arms of war
had settled stains

tinderbox broken
for a half-assed light
baneful prayers
and their volume's height

artlessly, the breathings
of a craven deep in night.