Life molds you into a shapeshifting mess.
One stumbles through different tribulations, and the soul diversifies as the years pass.
You turn into different versions of yourself.
It’s like treading through hell, but you taste heaven at the same time.
It’s not a choice, it’s a requirement.
Its like drinking liquid gold. The concept is luxurious, but it kills you so deliberately.
A beautiful solemnity?
Emotions so immense.
It hurts so much to breathe, to exist, yet you need to stay, you stay because of love. We suffer to exert empathy. Love is the cutlass that impales deeply.
It cuts far, it makes you bleed profusely, but it feels so good.
It just feels so good.
Is there a point to it all in the very end?
Happiness seems temporary. Chasing it is like the drop you feel when the veil is pulled from under your foundation; long, scary.
Happiness is the rarest paragon.
The heart, heavy and the mind, full.
Wondering day after day.
Who will understand me, touch me, sense me.
Wonder, keep wondering.
Wonder possesses you.
Wonder keeps watching you.
Wonder doesn’t let go, it comes to watch you die.
That’s the why, that’s the death.
Life will never give you an answer.

She has a weird habit of biting straws when drinking
until they're beautifully deformed;
she does the same thing even with the edge of disposable cups.

She always makes faces,
that's the first thing I've seen she's done
the first time I saw her.

She easily gets jealous
when I give "too much attention"
toward other things (or people).
I can't say I like it
but that's what she does that really diversifies her
from other people I know.

She almost never combs her hair.
She pouts her lips.
She speaks in a way that's almost chivvying.
She's always insecure.
You know what they say about butterflies?
They don't see how beautiful their wings are
so they live their whole lives believing they're not beautiful.

She has this bizarre wont to start telling random stories so suddenly,
I am not yet ready to hear them.

She's strange yet fetching.
She's odd, she's unique.
She's mysterious but innocuous.
She's peculiar.

I mean, how can you just
suddenly fall in love with something unfamiliar.

Like how comforting it feels
to watch the stars for the first time.

Then, you'd realise
that you don't even know
much about the stars.

And when you finally do learn
that they're distant,
huge and probably something
you won't be able to lay your hands onto,
you'd start to think twice.

Then you'd lay your back
on the grass (or the roof)
once more.

You'd look upon the glittery night sky.
And think it's fine;

you'd still watch the stars.

Tactility is nearly lost, exploring this wall
this plain white wall, where hangers once pierced.
Like a mime, almost, but hands have little feeling,
each white indent a symbol of a time - hopeful smiles.
Contact, is hesitant adherence to regularity
below the threshold of social living.

Heaviness diversifies through the vein maze,
like a bulkier fluid with no vitality, purposeless;
Except to disseminate the morose sense to the brain
filling like in a tub - bathing in burning tar,
burning - only temporarily relieved by peeled skin
burying all self worth and nostalgia.

Existence becomes consumed by waves of neurotic death
the plague wins the inner feud against movement;
cry or yell - what will it serve when light is dimming.

Mother did suggest therapy, thought she would,
how can a mind degree diminish the weight of these boulders
placed on each nerve, rolling back and forth;
on my heart.

Options for relief? Pressures release
may come in a silvery sharp form,
Just one, surely just one would last long enough
to drift this being from the sorrow and shame.
Dribbles at first, then the flowing burgundy waterfall
trickling hands, onto the hardwood floor.

It takes me away
I drift with the ripples, streaming
a wry smile arises and finally: sleep.
Hospitals are all to familiar
that disinfectant odor
and that beep - that constant beep monitoring pulse and life.
Now all to aware of: burgundy falls.