The Chill of MeltingThe loving hands which shaped these feathersbade me fight the fire and forsake the water,find the space between.Then those hands released me from our cage,and from my mind all was gone.The empty openness of the skywas the same as that of my mind.Curiosity flew to me on her silver wingsand, landing on my back,bade me soar.She flew into my throat and sat in my heartwarming her iced hands at the fire of my freedom.She bade the flames burn brighter,for her hair was tangled with frost,her eyes had become crystals of ice,and snow now flowed through her veins.She sang to me a song of winter,and in the spring sunI sprung from the cold shadows.Her breaths of mist filled my wingsand chilled my blistering skin.Her icy tears streamed from my ember eyes.She gathered the cinders in her icicle fingersand cooled my burning fear.But as she sang her song,the fire bade me fall.Curiosity’s laughter screamed in my ears.As the ashes swirled like snow,I floated past the soft
LabyrinthDarkness will, in this maze,scream in the ears of wanderers.Darkness will, in this labyrinth,crawl into the hearts of men.Darkness will, in this endless hall,silence escaping words and drag the rain from eyes of children.Darkness will, in this prison,prevail.
ColorlessFeel openness around you,lending its strength to the worn woodbending beneath youand holding you up.The trees clutch you close to their chests,comforting your unseeing eyes.In the quiet around youblooms the silent flower,your own breathing the only thing to soundalongside the avian lullabiessinging the sun to cool slumber.Swallow the birds’ calls,keeping the chill of the night from your skin.Hear the trees’ heartbeat,beating a rhythm for your own.Breathe in the silencepooling about you.Because when you’re aloneyour empty eyes can see.
Red LeatherMy eyes kissed the tough wagon,“I’m afraid I’ve surprised you” said the wheel,as red leather rocks took the shock and flew.They flew twice as high as the wall,flew past the stars and grew into the moon,as the clouds sang, loud proud and true.The frog sat inside the mailbox,as someone pushed a pile of post,the wide face swung forward and bit.Paper bruised and cut its poor throat,so our little frog melted to soft mudand snow fell on the hot tarmac.Wavering heat feasts on bones,bones disowned by the scrap dogs.Children mutter proverbs in silence,their eyes lamps of sugar and spiceand as the gasping earth drinks its tea,lambs die and no one hears their cries.
Away From HomeChantel walked along the boring, grey hallway like she did everyday on the way to group therapy. Walking down those halls really reminded her how much she hated the color grey. The walls were grey, the ceiling was grey, the furniture was grey, the sky outside was often grey; the color grey seemed to be a pandemic and, the first point of infection was the building she now lived in. She was an inpatient at a sanitorium surrounded by bucolic fields, trees and, as Chantel had figured when she arrived, nothing else. Thinking about the surrounding countryside reminded her of how she had been dropped at Mountainview Sanitorium by her untenably furious parents just a week ago. However, it seemed like years since she was sitting in the leather back seat of the family Volkswagen, duffel bag at her feet. The door to group therapy and the face of her friend Claire woke her from her reverie.“Dude, lets go! Doc is gonna kill us if we’re late again,” Claire smiled as she remembered
PerfectionYour ego wants.It is sometimes disguisedas your heartor your mind.butYOU don't want.you simply A R EYour worldly desires tell youthat you could bericherprettierhappierwhen everything you needyou already have.
A world of porcelain peopleWe live ina world fullof prettyfaçades; everyoneis a livingmasqueradein thisday and age:pick up yoursmiling faceat daybreak anddrape it over theviolet stainsbeneath youreyelids;walk aroundaimlessly -we are allsleepwalkers,eyes open butclosed.we are all pretty porcelain peopleliving in a pretty porcelain worldand our masksare startingto crack.(and reveal the ugly truth)
LightLight pooled in the floes of her fleshthe warm tone of polluted amberit ran down the window,the stream broken in places by silhouettesand other such distractionsit spilled, soundlessand flooded silken sheetssetting adrift the skin and breath and whispers of herMachiavellian schemesto steal away into the polluted darkher sighs overflowed, sonorouspouring into the amber and blackthe constellations dotted along herdisrupted in places by the shadows of treesand other such poetry
stardust. (you're beautiful)he'sout of orbit -interstellar spacedust in hisveins rise andfall witheach word thatdrips and poolsbeneath hishoneyed tongue;silenceis betweenhis knuckle-bones,sharp anddefined like theribcage of ababy bird, hismazarine eyeswere not made forthis earth butfor the stars.andsome days hefades in andout of reality likehe never reallywanted to be thereat all.on those daysi just thinkmy god, you really don'trealise how amazing you are.
DisappearSometimes, when I'm sadI remember that one time,All I had to worry about wasIf the bubbles I had blown, were about toDisappear.Sometimes, when I'm sadI remember that one time,I began to worry about the day thatMy childhood would simplyDisappear.Sometimes, when I'm sadI remember that some day,When I'm sitting with my husbandIn the old old house... my days will simplyDisappear.And that day,The day when my heartbeat isSilenced...The day when my breathTruly gets taken away.That's the dayWhen my worries, my concerns, my fears...Will simply... Disappear.
Depression Isn't RealDepression isn’t true, my dearDepression isn’t real.It’s just a silly tragedyYou’ve forced yourself to feel.Anxiety is fake, my friendYou wonder why it’s there.But others have it worse than you!Stop forming false despair.Cutting is dramatic, love,It’s ugly, and it’s dumb.Why not just get over it?Is the attention fun?Suicide is stupid, dear,And selfish, if I may.Get over yourself, darling,Can you hear these things I say?Why aren’t you replying, love?Oh, where could you have gone?I never meant to hurt you, love,Did I say something wrong?Why aren’t you replying, dear?Depression isn’t true!…Oh, but yes it was, “my dear”...Just maybe not for you.
Little GirlThere sits the girl with the things in her eyesMonsters, destruction, and sweet butterfliesHopscotch and daisies, surrounded by screamsBeautiful dresses now torn at the seamsCrayons and paintbrushes, villains and grinsYoung, gladsome innocence, hatred and sinsLittle red houses on roads left to fadeGorgeous moonlight shining off of the bladeBlood pouring out as she cries her own nameKnowing she's forced to take each bit of blameShe could have stopped it and left it behindAll of these things in her troubled young mindShe could have saved them if she dared to tryRather, though, she left herself there to die.Now, others watch as she sits on the groundKeeping their distance and letting her drownIn her own worries and things she won't tellWaiting for her mind to kill her as well.
your poemyou tell me on a thursday that you can’t findthe god inside of yourself anymore, thatyou think that you are finallytoo much honeycomb and not enough humanbecause lately everything has been slippingthrough your fingers, and you don’t know how you cankeep holding yourself together anymore.if today is the day that you lookat the stars and you no longerfeel their burn beneath your bones,i will show you the blanket i tried to makewhen i was eight, and i will tell you all i knowabout the string theory, which isn’t much, i admit,but i do know the basics,and that’s that everything in the universeis composed of strings that somehowloop onto each other infinitely.so whenever you feel like you’rewalking a tightrope without a safetynet below you, know that you arethousands of tightropes strung together,and one fall will not kill you.i have never told you about the wayi can feel my pulse skitter to a stopin my wrists whenever i hear you laughing
For My PeopleAs far as I can recall:I did not ask to be birthedInto a cycle of stagnation.I did not ask to be told,That my dreams are achievable;Only to see them limited by the scope of reality.I did not ask for a failing system,Passed unto me by half-dead corpses wearing suits.Nodding eagerly at one another,As they wait for an inevitable death.This I did not ask for,And I am certain that most of you did not either.But it is for that reason,And for that reason alone, I say:That it is up to us,We siblings bound by the chains of our forefathers,To create a system that is better,Than the bitter shackles of the past.Justice is what I long for.Justice for MY people.
Let me Go.I scrub and claw,and the water runs clearbut the blood on my handsis red as ever,it beats and pulseslike the blood in my veins.Turning my back,I'm giving up.I'm returning to my haven,not so safe,not so sound,where I scream.