Trapped 

Sometimes I get really jealous of people who have the pleasure of writing everyday.
They get to release their burdens and improve their art -I just feel stuck and occasionally stupid.
Having an overflow of emotions and not being to release it, is frustrating.
My words come out like scribbles.
No one knows what they mean.
I’m unable to connect.
I can no longer turn to words 

When the sky is draped in black 

And I’m no longer in need of sleep…

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09/04/2016

Waiting on the sun to sleep

I allow my clothes to grace my ankles. 

I turn on the shower – 

Grab a wine glass and make it less hollow. 

Slip into the shower with the the sole purpose of scrubbing my soul clean from anything a that is not me.  

In pursuit of nothing less than self intimacy 

Longing to be intimate with myself, and only me.  

Hot waters hit my back, 

hot vapors hit the ceiling, 

dancing in the air, 

graciously existing my body, 

Stripping away characters that remain long after the person leaves. 

Long after the pain. 

Finally allowing me to enjoy my company.. 

My body now feels like home to me.

Laying naked, un ashamed of baring my flaws. 

At this point, I am aware that nobody matters more than me. 

I get cosy with no intention of touching myself, but rather to invite myself and let myself know me more.

Reintroducing myself to my scars. 

Identifying features beyond intertwined branches, drawn from places much deeper – rooted trees in the soil.

– Mirror Conversation 

  
You’re the real meaning of staying but leaving.
A cross between a hurricane and tremor infused in water.
But you’re not a disaster,
And you don’t cause one,
But somehow those around your feel the aftermath of your presence,
And It’s not as pretty as you look.
You wonder why people who love you, never want you to stay.
You wonder why they say you keep pushing them away.
There’s just something about you that doesn’t scream “safe”.

-Mirror Conversation 

Throwback 

   
I came across this piece just now and I was completely unaware that I wrote it, until I was half way through. 

In those seconds, it dawned on me how unbelievablely easy it was for me to write about topics I had absolutely no idea of.

Now, that I’m learning to be aware of my emotions, writing has become such a foreign talent of mine.

Long story short, I can finally relate to what what I used to write about and now that I’m experiencing it, I find it difficult to write.

Nobody Asks An Art Piece Why It Is The Way It Is

I haven’t written for a very long time and I guess it’s because I’m still going through the many forms of hurt and pain and I don’t know how to express without actually hurting.

And I guess I also realised that people close to me go through my work and ask about it.

It’s uncomfortable.

I Hate it.

I write because I don’t want to talk about it.

People don’t get that.

I remember why I actually started writing,

I had a lot of heaviness, I felt neglected and heavily betrayed by the only person I knew how to love the most.

I could have been many questionable things at that point of my life,

But I turned to my notebook.

Now here I am,

With somewhat of a trembling pen just trying to get my life together again

Because living half a life isn’t worth it anymore.

I just want to be

A L I V E

This is Chapter 2 of my life.

Dear Destroyer

You took a huge part of me & ran away,
When were you planning on telling me?

In your head, I was just a phase.
You should have fucking told me.
 
The only reason I don’t let people in,
Is because I hate how they always up and leave.
No goodbyes,
Just up and out as they please.

I was honestly on the verge of blaming myself, thinking my emotional flaws pushed you away.

I thought maybe those couple of days weren’t my “Fully Me” days.

But is wasn’t me, was it?
It was you who pushed yourself away.

Unfortunately I’m not the type that forces people to stay.

You got me so close to letting my walls fall down, so many times I felt them shake.

Labelled you “too good to be true”, now I can see your Knight and Shining amour Silhouette was fake.

Okay, no I’m lying…

But I can’t believe that you used the oldest trick in the book as your bloody bait.  

Better yet, I can’t believe I fell for it.

It was a matter of time before your dirty colours escaped.
I’m glad I didn’t witness the kaleidoscope of your chaos.

I guess it’s not much irony that the climax of our in betweens was the actual climax between the sheets.

Or I guess it was dramatic irony, because as your actress to a play I didn’t even audition for, I was never clued that my character was foolish and lacked self-awareness.

I would have never taken the role if you didn’t present it and under false pretence.

But honestly, I wouldn’t have let you hit it when you did.

I can’t help but let the little laughs escape my breath when I realise that you’re mature act was just part of your masquerade.

Never in a million years would I ( under normal circumstances) thought I’d ever be at the receiving end of your childish outburst.     
    
Ohh, and that thing you took from me? You’re welcome to keep it, in fact, keep this little poem as your damn receipt. No returns though. I want you to keep it.

P.S
If you wanted me to write warmly about you, you should have acted better.