Creative Manipulation.

Creativity is deep, yet is destroyed by man. Taken advantage of, simply because of anatomy within. Hierarchy of manipulation, ideas of demise, putting it down because you're sick of your lies. You believe you’re creative, that you’re over me, and by putting down my dreams, you’re helping me.

It’s not about comfort, but insecurity. I can know who I am, but you’re still authority. And it’s only because of what society has raised you to be, because of the prevalence of male patriarchy. My emotions and creativity are all of my own; you think you ignite them but you don’t even know. I came from you, but am not the same; I’m motivated to make something of my name.

Glasses.

Get me out of here, give me a sign. I won’t make it out alive. Darkness, darkness, follows me. Nothing but sleep encompasses me. Sleep and tears, darkness adheres. I don’t believe I’ll make it out alive. Darkness, darkness, follows me. Give me glasses so I can see. Wish they distorted the world enough so I could at least pretend someone wanted me.

Unusual Rant.

Why are we so compelled to be under the control of technology? It’s nuts, bolts, screws, chips. Little pieces combined together, ruling us. Laptops, phones? Why do they have to rule us.

And money. It’s just green paper, just paper. It can tear, be shredded, fragile but we live around it. It motivates in the worst ways. Death occurs because of it. Money hungry people rule. It defines statuses, although we’re all on the same boat, called life, where no one can get out alive.

Why live this way? When did society lose sight of the really important things? Those things that don’t constantly change, ruin relationships and reputations, compete. When did we become the people that choose to text instead of talking in person, or the ones that feel so dependent on their technology that they can’t even hold a face to face conversation because Marimba is ringing in the background or a horn tone is letting you know someone took the time to type you something, completely irrelevant.

When did we lose sight of building strong relationships with people instead of building strong relationships with a crappy piece of plastic and glass and a flimsy piece of green construction paper with numbers printed on the corners, things that can get lost and break oh so easily.

Because people strive for convenience over interpersonal relations.

Have a day of self, of others, without an inanimate object delegating who you are and what you’re doing. Change it, or it’ll change you.

Fallback.

The thought of a memory, once held so secure. In my hand, it was once a cure. Years ago it abandoned me, letting my body finally feel free. But freedom is cold, so dark and unknown, the thought of freedom.. scares me. Freedom, limitless, it petrifies me.

Angel Wings.

Held by an angel, demented wings, but bright in spirit, yet full of tears. They shelter from the corrupt dark word, more terrorism than it should ever behold.

Comforting, closing me in, my angel holds my innocence.

I may have wings, but they aren’t all white, black scattered, I’ve grown to fight.

My body, my soul, I deserve to grow old, not to be taken from here. Whether in an empty shell or completely here, my angel still holds me, she knows my fear.

It’s dark but it’s light, lightness so bright, prevailing over the storm. Finding the past, recovering that me. Relentless, it despises me. Uncovering facts, assumptions, truths, that me is gone, my angel is proof.

Judgmental of wings, but who cares if they’re veiled? Not all angels are perfect; they can be dark from the start. Doesn’t mean they are cruel or harmful or lost, it means they know hurt, and that is what’s dark.

The Lullaby.

Sleepy, sleepy, close your eyes. I’ll come get you, your demise. Bargain, watch me come take you, you’ll never find a way-- break through.

Soft, sweet lullaby, be so cruel. I’m no angel; you’re a fool.

Sheep jump, counting, sun rising. Poor little hoof prints, my coffin.
You deteriorate at my will, just like a sheep stripped of its wool.

Let me be Alice in Wonderland. I’d like to play a game of pretend. Think I see you, rabbit hole. Stuck in a teapot, grow so small. Naked, sheep wool keeps me warm, flamingo feathers on the floor.

I know you’ll take me away from here, yet I still fear, counting sheep won’t disappear.

Sing me a lullaby, comfort my soul. Sing me a lullaby, my eyes are growing cold.

The Leeches.

A leech is attached, sucking and hosting, making a meal out of me. Sucking and yearning for that blood that is turning a good soul into a thief.

A thief of desire, a thief of fire, of the burning heart inside me.

Leeches living, hosting and breeding, have made a shell out of me.

Deceived World.

Searching in a place for answers, the cruel world’s intentions falling underneath your feet. Altering, refusing, denying your very being. I don’t belong, you don’t belong, none belong, outsiders of your own skin.

Losing a game of win-win, winning a game of losses. A chess piece on a checker board, a thimble in the game of Life. Out of place.

Broken mirror, cursed and hopeless. Stepping on glass, cutting my feet, bruising and bleeding, world forsaken my being.

What have you become?
What have you become..

Mundus vult decipi, ergo decipiatur.

Just don’t deceive me with you.

The Lost.

What’s right is together, but together isn’t right.

Judgement and suicide.
Flight or fight.

Work on me, work on you, but we always end up making two. Not one, not three, not seven or nine, I know I wish I could just make you mine.

Loss of power, loss of soul, damn this heart feels so cold. Because what’s right is together, but fear steps in, making everything good, lost again.

Lost soul, you feel so old.