What is the weight of my hands; Or the circumference of my thoughts; A price tag on the hinterlands of my heart? What value holds What translates here, What world tongue Or currency can spare A single soul, seeking to dare To spring from Purge Oratory
The soul craves to bathe in light, But sometimes it wishes only to drift far, far away. The soul burns deliriously putting up the good fight. Those that lose themselves to the night, They grapple, crawl, bellow, and pray. The soul craves to bathe in light. But once clouds finally depart, through the
It was a welcomed mess A necessary byproduct of the insistence of seeking beauty Tired hands stained with paint Color the picture with no worries Finding comfort in its morphed depiction Willing to bear the pain of its creation A path paved by neediness is doomed to fail But I walked down that road And
I really love the outdoors, yes I very truly do With reaching bright green trees and birds that sparkle blue And expansive fields of flowers, all brand spanking new And all these things are great, they’re really truly grand But there are also creepy crawlers that can bite or lick unplanned And rain and sleet
I watch you as you wash your hands with fear, Red that represented my DNA The scenes that play over in my head form tears As that same soul dies and cripples away I wonder if it was all in my head You would make me laugh the same way she did “Sweet, I
You grasp this glimmer of sunshine For a minute you feel that you are on top But then the wind kicks beneath you And u fall in some sort of trap U ache yourself to escape it Seeing everyone you love from above U try your best to climb each rough Thinking you’d never be
I feel as if there is something inside me. Not in a parasitic or demonic way, but something needs to come out. I have been feeling a multitude of spontaneous desires that feel deeply urgent. These include but are not limited to: singing, dancing, talking to strangers, reading, writing, painting my nails, walking, running, driving
I once had a therapist tell me that I didn’t know you at all. That I was too young to really know you when you died. Maybe he’s right. I know you loved art, though. Not the kind that’s hung up in museums, but creativity. Making art boxes covered in stickers, laughing on the floor
it’s strange. he’s got the warmest complexion – tanned caramel undertones, brown freckles sprinkled across his cheeks, and straight black hair that lays flat against his head instead of the brown waves that encase my own i envy his eyes, they’re hooded, and half-moon shaped, swelling with innocence so large and so doe-like
all the colors of the Moon bluish, blackish, blue: in the eyes of a heart fractured and aching with the turn of a strange machine. rise on a pillar of sand stardust sweeps by Your bruised face Your lip, cut by the jagged edge of a local supernova. “hi” my rib
