Somewhere in here, there's a songI'm staring at the screen wondering where my words are.They're here somewhere - or at least they once were.I wonder if someone could save me from this.Or if I was doomed to fall from the beginning.
Blood TiesThere was once a little girl, the most loved little girl in all existence. One day, someone killed her. And everyone was sad. Everyone was devastated. 'But how could she die,' they all wondered. She was their heart, their soul, and without her, how could they continue?But they did. Because they had to. And they kept on loving her. Until the day they all died.
What they feelLove was falling from the skylike shattered strays of glass
Story Time for the Wicked ThingsYou forget that her life is lost and too much blood has fallenAngels die but love lives onAnd a fairytale always ends
Frustration in Her VoiceShe's held her tongue for so longShe's forgotten what to sayWhen the words seem readyThey get lost along the wayAnd when the letters start to make a soundIt's been long gone, the end of the day
Witch-EyesDeath follows her Witch-Eyes everywhereYet so does life, in her presence of serenityHer eyes, for knowledge, leave your soul curious - yet bareSo that her voice could take away all inner acerbity
Because I love youIf you were the sun, then I'd be the sky So that I may show just how brilliant you areIf you were the clouds, then I'd be the wind So that I could show you off to the worldIf you were the moon, then I'd be the darkness So that you could shine beyond meIf you were the stars, then I'd be the galaxy So that you may have a home to call your own
Kill the Puppeti wonder if she knowsknows?hahahif she does...i'll bet she goes CRAZYhopefully she'll be stronghahahcrazy...if she snaps...we'll have to kill herwe'll have to try to save herto save ourselvesto save hergiggle
The Season's PriceThe winter's frostIs the voice of the lostAnd your life is the only costThe flora of springAs the cruel nymphs singYour soul is what you must bringThe summer engulfs with heatAn impossible featNo angel a sinner will meetThe final leaf of fallThe migration is the last callTo die at the seasonal ball
EvolutionEvolutionis a silent process of changingwe realise from the result.It Can't Be The Target.
UntitledGlide through the heavensin hopes to evade the crimson wingsthat holds you down.Be free.When will you shut the pearly gatesand walk away?When will you cut the crying chainsthat paint you grey?be free.Be freeBe Free.
ExelixiΕξέλιξηείναι μια σιωπηλή διαδικασία αλλαγήςπου αντιλαμβανόμαστε εκ του αποτελέσματος.Δεν Μπορεί Να Είναι Ο Στόχος.
LostLost –Like a vagabond.Split – At a four-waystreet, past any signsthat I comprehend.If I had I had it my way,I would cruise on the highwayand never stop.
pillow talkthere are thousandsof tongues i couldmemorize; new wordsfor love tucked betweenteeth often bitingtoo hard.my chapsticked lipscould learn to bow togrammar laws incountries i'llnever visit.i could master writingsymphonies in syntax,spend hours penningvolumes in languagesof longing and love,but i'll never find aphrase that fits youthe way your body fitto mine, back bent.i'll never find a namefor how our lips tuckedtogether, for my handsin your hair, for therapture in your eyes.
adolescenceWe look up into the skyand see the stars as millionsof possibilities for us to wrap our handsaround and try, picking and choosingour favorite constellations like applesin the fruit aisle of a grocery store.We talk about our dreamsof leaving this townfar behind and far away,but we don’t talk about howleaving home means leaving each otherand each constellation we wrap our handsaround propels us into completely differentdirections. We want to hold on to each otheras much as we want to let go of this dustbowl,but we can’t have both,and that scares us.We look up into the skyand see how big the galaxy iseven when we can’t see 90% of itand we are suddenly aware of howsmall we actually are, barely grains of sand,barely specks of dust, barely here at all.We stop looking up and lookdown at our feet shuffling,worried and afraid for each otherbecause we barely sleep and failinga class means failing high school,failing to get into the dream college,fai
Five Reasons to Not Write PoetryI.Sooner or later,It'll mess with your head;You'll be taking a shower, orLying in bedWhen the "inspiration"Hits you hardAnd when you miss the bus and first hourYou have to use the"I over-slept" card.II.It'll have you thinkingAt every point of the day;Twisting words and making rhymesProdding until the language swaysTo your fingertipsAnd theLower case letters nipIn hopes that you'll use themAbuse them until you are atYour hem.III.They will mock you untilYou simply can't think;The words swirling around,They will push you to the brinkOf complete denial,Of absolute insanity;"Yes, I ate enough" and "Yes, IFeel fine" are the words youHave to beat.IV.You will not care how peopleReact to what you say;What do they know ofWhat we do everyday?You think that to yourself,As a way to not seek helpIn the comfort of realLove and not the fake kindYou write of.V.You will lie and you willCheat and scoff and sayNothingFor all your mostImportant words are
What Rape Can't Tell YouHe parrots the word, over and over until it sticksLike the bruises on schoolchildren's hands, when they realize purple hurts more than redWhile others mourn the translation lost in betweenThe definition he wroteAnd what they want to scream to the world.All you know is a word,The hell hidden beneath it is nothingBut the trace of a memory that doesn't belongTo you, and you're so glad it isn't yoursBecause then that pain can just be a word,A beautiful illusion of pretend-this-doesn't-happen andThis-won't-happen-to-youYou deserve prettier words, better words, you thinkOnes that stay silent, can be hidden across a pageVictimless and longer than the four letters they warn you aboutYou don't know how that word is strungOr why they tie chords around their wristsIn protest, why the memories they drag are drugged andFilthy with the crimes that can't be forgivenYou don't know how that syllable can hurt,What it can doYou don't see the gashes in their organsOr the fissures tha
EmbersHer hair was orangeand glowed in the fireturning black and ashnot a single moment laterthe scissors were coldThe embers wereglowing just the samehungry for her tressesthe royal red burnedyet no burn was leftHer hair was shortuneven with amber rootsoutgrowing the dyeshowing her natural shademom and dad took the scissors awayOrange locks tickle her neckfire cannot fight firemom and dad breathe easiershe does not touch the scissorsthough she always looksShe is eighteenleaving home is a blessingher hair bundled in a hatshe does not like to see itthe brightness keeps her up at nightThe hairdresser mourns her hairmore than she ever doesas it falls limply to the groundthe locks have lost their hueshe smiles as they fallIt is easier to tell people she is happynow her hair is goneorange roots don't show on a shaved headshe stands proudly nowshe doesn't keep scis
White Ballet ShoesEveryone watchShe dances in the meadowsSweet, white ballet shoes