Fuel, You Fool.

Fathom existence, finish the maze, fire passion, we must behave. Fuel the ignition, feel the spark, the light in your eyes erases my dark. Like the ribcage I protect my heart, but follow through and the marrow will part. Enter, ease, enlighten me. Hold my breath, I find it hard to breathe. Breathless and speechless, your smile appears.

Existence of us, reviving me, sorrows burned, you let me be. Explore and find dead ends alike, only with help will I make it out alive, I might. We will make it out alive, we will finally feel alive. Fire, passion, behaving thieves, stealing my heart, harmony and melody, your voice like music to my ears.

Love, Hope.

Inside all of us is hope. Inside all of us fear. It sits on our shoulders, it is reflected in our eyes. It is distraught, feelings prevalent of being alone. What is there to be fearful of? There’s a string attached to dreams. It unravels, bit by bit. With each thread loosened, hearts get heavy. But there are no hearts, only stones. Dark pieces of rock composed of ancient, foreign matter, suppressing a being that should be so much more alive. Blocking, resenting, protecting, when it should not be.

Opening, hoping, reaching. Where is hope, in a heart, in a soul? It is torn, crushed and lost. Shattered like glass dropped from fifty feet above. A broken vase, a faded memory, pain unraveling the hopes of dreams once so loud. Heavy heart, heavy rock, holding you down. This is not hope, it cannot be. Fear taking on the face of hope. It burns, like a hot coal in your hand. The anger, the pain, the hurt, ignited by fear. Hope is masked by fear. Fire of love, ignited by hope.

Inside all of us is hope. It must fight past the fear. Like fire and rain, they conflict. Burn or flood, heat or cold, hope or fear, love or loss. Faded, lost, found, loved. After all, what is there to be fearful of?

I am with you, I am in reach. - Love, Hope.

Bliss.

There is a place, a place that is not ours. It is a place we must find, a place that we must form. It is a complacent place we are in. Denatured, morphed, unrecognizable, gone away. It is a game of trail, a test to see who can survive such a place. Pass the test, leave the place and make your own. Leave the place, make your own, recognizable world, ordinary world, stronger world. Place of pure bliss, pure happiness, pure content in yourself and what lies beneath you, beyond you, in front of you. It is there, it is all you.

You can blossom in bliss, or you can be miserable in it.

Before bliss, there is misery. This is why we must be tested. Tested for truth and strength. Mental capacity to contain emotion, contain thoughts. Shuttering, shut off from the world. Cowering against the wall, with shadows and demons of fears and regret standing in front of us.. to each his own. There is an undeniable comfort in releasing the demons of fears upon yourself, but to allow them to soak in your blood that they caused. Resentment mistaken for passion. Or was it passion mistaken for resentment? Learn to survive, and you can leave the place of misery. Misery left a memory, misery left as a memory. Recognize the value of misfits, you are a misfit. A misfit in misery, you were. There is a test. It is called life. And as we must live, we must fight.

We must learn to survive. Only then can we blossom in bliss.

Pass the test, leave the place, make your own. Make it recognizable, beautiful. You’ve made it, and you very well deserve it. You have fought for bliss, you have fought for your bliss. You have fought for your place and have put your place in that place, and it needs you. No longer a vacuum of your own heart, bliss thrives. What has happened to you?

Alive but maybe not in that way. Which way? Alive in soul, body, mind, looking below. Remember bliss. Remember what is ordinary is not necessarily your own. We form our place, we form our home. You form your place, you form your home. Remember bliss. Bliss.. blossom. Bliss, misery.

Good, Gone.

We’re prisoners. Prisoners to routine, to society, to the lack of capable comprehension in our minds. Routine, different setting but same events, same repetition of saying and feelings. Where has the good gone?

In my drawer rests a bottle of liquid used to tame a wild beast. Pin straight, curly Q, waves on a beach, tamed. But other bottles, do they intend to break the beast out into a place where prison no longer exists? To release to the animals the aura of positivity, that is when prison does not exist. That is when it is released, when we as prisoners are released, when the comprehension of the mind reaches all horizon of certainty, with the idea of uncertainty and negativity dismissed into the inner abyss.

The good has gone from lack of creativity and intelligence. Lost through societal trends and mishaps, lost through obsessions of what does not really matter. Promote love, banish what you hate. Rather freedom than submission and darkness. Leave me here, left alone, to meditate on the unknown. To embrace the future, live the present, learn the past, be a prisoner to breaking out of this cell and creating a comprehension-able life to reject repetition and to finally find the good.

Make Believe.

Beautiful woman, so misunderstood. Taken but free, she is not me. Depicted as a woman beyond her own self, huddled in a corner writing to herself. Depicted as a writer far less than her own good, hidden talents are often grossly underscored.

What happened to her?

Stronger than her own mind, her heart has lost far too many fights. Yet appreciation lies at its core, fears and brainwashed manipulation keep her huddled in that corner, body on the floor. They said it was overdose. Murder was the cure. Lies and trust demanded by friends, she gave in letting them believe she was someone else within. Wise but young, taken from her own body, making me wonder, where is me?

Where is she?

Unhappy alone or unhappy with another, positivity can’t creep itself into the picture. Happy with her heart, not with her mind, or is it the other way around? I resign. Back and forth, write and scratch, tearing, crumbling, tossing talent in the trash. Believed lies, trust is lost, believing and trusting are simply dust. I am taken by the wind, my body in midair, trusting no one but myself, there is belief in nothing real.

The Destruction.

I feel like destroying something beautiful.

Beauty masks monsters. Beauty fuels falsity. They sky is beautiful, but the sky is cloudy. Your face is beautiful, but it is lifeless. Beauty is torture. Monsters thrive off of torturing you, they thrive off of your fear. Wandering, sucking color from the world, ice cold, Antarctica, miles and miles away.

Taken advantage of. Beauty is, I mean. Murdered, covered as suicide, but why would you ever want to destroy something beautiful? Higher powers, controlled anarchy. And no matter what, you can’t escape.

Beauty is everywhere, lying to you. Things aren’t beautiful, so destroy it all. What we deem as having beauty is merely a reflection of how we perceive ourselves to be. Do you think you’re beautiful? No? What about your soul, is that beautiful, or are you dark like me?

You’re tortured within only because of the constant battle with beauty. Your eyes, hungry for relentless destruction.

I feel like destroying something beautiful; therefore, everything will be destroyed.

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.