Scars are the evidence that wounds can be healed...

but scars are also a reminder of how those wounds got there...

Why can’t you help me like a normal human being?
Why are you afraid from giving just a little from what you have?
It’s supposed to be easy and simple. We all say that life is hard so why don’t we all stick together? Why you wanna have it all when someone else is in need?
Is it fear from not having enough? Or is it the society that punishes our souls?

Everytime I lay on the bed on my side
I can't help but imagine you laying right there in front of me
I cant stop thinking about your beautiful face ,your autumn rainy skies eyes and your full red cherry lips.

I wish I could hold the night. It doesn't stay long enough. I hardly get a taste of it. I'm stuck in my room, trying to sleep. But I can't. If my bed had wings, I'd fly into the night and I'd see the world without colour and imagine I was the one painting it.
                                                        -What would you use?
I'd improvise. I'd use words. Words have colour, you know. Voices. Thoughts. Music.
                                                      -What type of music?
The type of music that makes you feel life is worth living. That somehow, everything has a place, even when it doesn't.

I sometimes wonder about the clouds. They have everything they could ever imagine - nutrients, beauty, a breathtaking view on the top of the world. They're friends with the stars. Yet, they wander. Hopelessly. The sky is different every day because the clouds keep on moving, floating to nowhere. And even though it has it all, it begins to sink as it replenishes the ground with it's rain.
                                                      -You're a strange one.
I used to think so.

                                    -Do you think they'll ever write a book about us?
That depends. Who are you?
                                                    -Wouldn't you like to know.
Are you my conscience?
                                                 -If I were, you'd know it.
I don't understand.
                                           -You will, in time. tell me more.
I'm afraid I've run out of things to say.
                                     -No you haven't. You never could, as long as the things you say are written.

Do you know how I danced? I twirled and twirled without stopping. The crickets was my music. The greenest grass you've ever seen was my carpet. I danced until the moon slid into the sky. I danced, barefoot.
                                                 -And you laughed.
I don't remember anyone being there.
                                        -But I was. I admired how you danced like you didn't care if others were watching.

I usually care.
                                         -You didn't then.

Feel the wind! I'm gonna travel it one day!
                                           -You already are.
Is it bad that I've already begun to craft my memoirs? I think of them at night. I'm too young to die, but a part of my spirit wonders if that's true.
                                         -You will never die.
Easy for you to say. I'm sure you're immortal, right?.... No response? Well, if I die, it will be from writing myself out until I fade.
                                       -No. You'd die if you didn't write yourself out.

Who are you anyway?
                                      -.....