Here's a piece of my mind
A puzzle that is me
I'm a little blind
And all of my thoughts are lost in a sea
But that's a little part of my mind

I seem fierce and confident
But in actuality, I'm the opposite
This mindset is not always constant
Everything in me is like a conglomerate
But that's just a little part of my mind

One minute my mind is a green meadow
The next is a burning forest screaming
Everyone in the afterglow
Meanwhile, I feel I am a nightmare dreaming
But that's just a little part of my mind

Every day I feel my heart-breaking
Craking more little by little
The pain becoming backbreaking
Wanting me to go to a hospital
But that's just a little part of my mind

In the end, on the other hand, I try
With only one savior in the waiting love
I've tried many times to say goodbye
But I can't because of the want, thereof
Hidding the pieces of my mind

Artists are often
broken people
using the fragments of themselves
to create something new
and although
being healed
feels so complete
sometimes i want to be broken again
sometimes i want open wounds
so i can use the blood
to paint sunsets
so i can use the torn off pieces of skin as a canvas
so i can carve
masterpieces with the jagged bones left behind
but I can't bring myself to break my own heart in the name of Art

day holds me in cage,
night sets me free
from the burden of identity,
the necessity to be me.

every person on this earth
has got a certain fear
spiders incite panic,
public speaking invokes tears

mine isn't too uncommon,
but only some women can relate
it's a special kind of fear
to a special kind of hate

it wasn't whispered in my ear
it's just something that i know
it's been ingrained since my beginning,
a part of how society flows

you see, i'm afraid of a guy.
or rather, his rejection
afraid i'm not enough
because i'm darker in complexion

did you know his hands are white?

that's why around him, my skin burns
instead of reciting numbers and letters,
what if it's racism that he learned?

i was taught to admire passions, looks, and intellectual minds
if only to darker women,
love could prove to be more kind

im 18 in year '18 but it feels like '63
hiding feelings from a whitey cause ****** is defined as me

Suddenly, I find myself collecting my past in fist-fulls
wondering why it was all so easy to forget;
how all these memories
managed to burrow beneath
my clumpy brain and remain there,
unharmed yet harmful.
I envy you
silly boy, and your consistent emptiness--
How is it that you are free from your past
while mine begs for forgiveness?