do not forget 
the power 

and strength 
among women

and take care 
to tread lightly
around our porcelain frames

for we will shed the China coating eagerly,

and cut you with the same pieces 
that once made us fragile.

im letting my sad thoughts flow into poetry,

that will bury each beautiful verse so deeply between my aching bones,

that i shall cry rose petals instead of tears,

that delicate blossoms will fall instead of my blood,

and from my open wounds shall bloom bouquets,

so fragrant and beautiful with roots that stem from my no longer broken heart.

Black tresses spread across space
The white flowers ever so small
Yet all the more beautiful
Floating gracefully in her raven locks

And her pearl
Sometimes hidden
Sometimes in full view
Or half bathed in shadows

She holds a beauty not known by man
Yet man cant help but notice her
Some fear what she brings and are frozen in awe
Others spare her a fleeting glance minds lingering for a second

She can only stand a few hours
Before he arrives
Chasing her beauty with passion like fire
So that he may have the glory

But it isn't long
Til she rises again wisps of her raven hair dancing into sight
Its all lit in fire before she arives
Reds and oranges fade to purple and blues

Then she is here once more
Raven tresses filling view
Her pearl standing proud and serene
"the queen of gems and the gem of queens" pearls are called

Who was she if not a queen
Commanding the tides that drift so freely
Such power and such beauty
And until the sky is bathed in fire
She walks in darkness
But she's never alone

The skeletons aren’t in my closet.

ive strung up their skulls for my wind chimes,

I’ve ground their ribs into the powder i dust on my skin,

I’ve set their spines on a string and wear them as jewellery.
There are no monsters under my bed.

my monsters live within,

they run through my veins like the ichor of the gods,

they flicker behind my dark eyes like shadows,
tthey whisper my sins like a lover’s embrace.
Iam not a porcelain girl.

and if you come any closer I’ll bite you,

and smile red with your blood dripping from my ivory fangs

Have you ever been sad?
That one type of sad
When you feel tears burning your eyes
Your throat feels like its closing up
It gets harder to breathe
Your hands start to shake
But somehow you feel sad yet numb at the same time
You feel like you're about to fall apart but by some miracle you haven't
Your thoughts swirl in your brain
Your vision clouds over
Your mind is foggy
And you stop
And you think
I could be dead right now. I could so easily die tonight and that would be it. I wouldn't have to do this anymore. I could be dead by tomorrow.

And the worst part is
It should scare you
But it doesn't
It seems oddly welcoming

Have you ever been that kind of sad?

Why must i be afraid?

Why can’t I hold her hand?

Or kiss her in public?

Why must I hide amongst the shadows,

with a love that’s more like poison
than an elixir of life?

why must her touch leave bullet holes in my flesh?

and why must wanting her feel like a sin?

maybe one day I’ll find a love 
that doesn’t leave bruises on my heart

that isn’t condemned

and that blossoms like a rose
without demanding blood with its thorns.

I do not understand why hurricanes are named after people
for i am not a storm.

I am a flood.
I am the ocean, 

calm, 

still;

until someone casts waves in the water. 

until someone pushes and pushes until i over flow,

and in that moment i can not be contained.

i can’t not be reasoned with or hidden from.

i will show no mercy,

but eventually i will recede.

when the tiredness seeps into my bones
and my emotions are no longer flooding through a battered city,

I will recede to my home

and be still once again.
And I will glisten under the sun,
and bless the shore with my gentle touch,
and you will never think I’ve ever shown the world my rage

She was a writer.
The words on the page mirroring her innermost thoughts.

She was a thinker.
A whole universe of beautiful thoughts running through her head.

She was a fighter.
When all odds seemed against her she pulled through.

She was a lover.
She loved so purely and greatly even though sometimes it wasn't returned.

She was a carer.
She looked after those who were stuck in the dark and she helped mend their broken pieces.

She was a dreamer.
And she is my friend

I'm sure we had names.
                              What was my name?


I'm sure we had homes.
                  But for us where was home?


The memories we had once hidden in our minds.
                   They've faded now in a slow torturous good bye


You'd think someone would remember
                    But we're hidden on a shelf



Our eyes are blank and souls are torn
           All hope once cherished has died



We're the kids that time forgot
            And no one even said goodbye

Who is mad?
Is it I?

But if I am mad then how aren't you?
Perhaps you are mad and I am sane

How does one know if one is sane?
How does one know if one is insane?

But is insanity a luxury?
Or is the luxury sanity?

What if one was sane but recognised the sanity as insanity?
Would one be insane then?

Or perhaps one was insane but to the eye insanity was sanity?
Would one be sane then?

What if sanity was insanity and insanity sanity?
Would the lack of clarity over insanity and sanity be but a normality?

Or is the true clarity that insanity is a normality?
For who is sane?

Is it I?
I, who dreams dreams and inner thoughts are most shy?

Who wakes when she sleeps
And sleep when she wakes?

Perhaps we are all in subdued insanity
If so isn't insanity a normality and sanity out clarity?

Or insanity is our clarity?
And sanity is a dreamed up notion for normality?

Who is mad?
Is it I?

Or the world in which there is no clarity over insanity and sanity?
And there is nothing but a formality which is normality which should or should not be insanity?

she left a mark on his SOUL

that looked a little like ROSE PETALS

in a blooming bouquet of LOVE
but when she had to LEAVE

the THORNS dug so harshly

into his HEART

that his LOVE for her

turned BITTER and COLD

like the harshest WINTER night
and the MEMORY of her CARESS
withered to DUST and ASH

and when she RETURNED

with her LOVE for him

made of BOUQUETS of RED ROSES

all he could MUSTER 
was a HATE for ROSE PETALS

and the THORNS on their stems