A Gentle BreezeI stand alone in a field of flowersThe sun is burning my faceI feel a warm embraceAt the same time I feel a cold shoulderIt comes and goesLike a gentle breezeI sit at home in my wobbly chairMy eyes glued to the screenAgain I feel a warm embraceAgain I feel a cold shoulder tooIt comes and goesLike a gentle breezeI cry, I cry, I cry some moreBut in the endI feel much moreThan just a warm embraceOr a cold shoulderI feel...I feel...I feel joy and splendorAnd anger and fearAnd sadness and confusionA river of emotionsBut then I realizeAfter it allIt just comes and goesLike a gentle breeze
A Red RiverI look dawn as it dripsIs it water?No, it is with colourI do not regretI do not feelOnly the deep numbThat stirs from withinI cannot feelThrough mind and bodyIt drops to the floorThe dull blade making a noiseAnd I fallNo more...
UTAU VirgilName: Virgil OujiCharacter Item: StrawberryColor: PinkMusic Genre: J-PopGender: Male
i read about serial killers not saintsshe says, “what are humans made out of,if not emotions and quirks and mistakes?”i think to myself that humans are madeout of sinew and bone and tissue and if god hasn’tfound a way to love us bloodily and morbidlythen he will never be able to look past anyof our self-taught imperfections.but i say none of this, just nod and smile,and wonder what it means that to her,all that i am is a series of mistakes stackedon top of each other. my entire body is a pasti cannot outrun no matter how many timesi move away and forget my name and who i usedto be.she tries to take away my body, but i have foughtfor sixteen years to gain these inches of self-loveand i am proud to stand before her now wearing muscleand skin. i want to tell her that i am ninety-threepercent star dust and that means ninety-three percentof who i am has lived in a blackness so absolutethat the only light i had was the one i created for myself.i want to tell her that’s something i thi
Self-Harm Isn't a HandbagPick at the scabs of the ghosts of scarsOn the insides of my wrists,White hot pain memories shoot up my veinsAnd the tear vapour creates mistsIn the lenses of my glasses.My world narrows down to thoseWhite stitch marks that keep thePatchwork of my forearms and thighsTogether,Keeping the dark ugly hurtOn the insidesForever.How could I have done this to myself?Could I blame you?And him?And her too?No.I’m a big girl now,And the blame rests on my wrists,That flicked the bladeAnd sprayed the blood,And the mind that forbadeMe to ask for help.I’ve said it beforeAnd I’ll say it again;It isn’t beautifulTo put yourself through such pain.When your head is buzzingFrom the hit of the highOf a new cut on your thigh,Or your mind is lost in a mistOf ecstasy from a new sliceOn your wristAnd you’re dependent on itA junkie needing a hit,It isn’t pretty or cute or special.No amount of kissesWill undo the cutsOr absorb the scars.No
bullets in a shot glassAgain the archers are aching,again their bones are breakinglike the cracks in the Colosseum.Death does not defendeager-eyedfighters; he does not fulfillgodly goals ofheaven and halos.I am inverted, introverted,a jester jeeringat kids who kisslike life is long enough to fall in love.my mouth is a machine,a new nightfallordering our soldiers outinto pits where they pray for peace.the quirks of ourridiculous readings rule us,sand us into sculpturesthin and tall, trembling.our universe is built on uncertaintyand vicious virtueswritten by long-dead warriors whoexpected to live forever, andI do not yield to yourwell-read zombies.
The Wrong Side Of MidNightOn The Doctor's TrainI Met The Princess Of The Dawn,But We WereOn The Wrong Side Of MidNight.
new perspective.i.the dress hangs in the back of my closet,ashamed, limp and danglinglike a hanged lady at the gallows.it is a faded reminderof years ago,of the body I worein times gone.ii.I run my fingers over the pale fabric,trying to recall that dark peach pitrolling in my stomach,that intrusive disgust,that unclear thought running throughmy mind that night.I was younger, then,softer,when I decidedI'd never be wortha frame on the wall.I peeled myself apartin front of the mirror,shed the dress like snakeskin,left it like abandoning a childand sent myself toshiver against the wall.iii.while they all laughedat their faraway party,I trembled over the lyricsof the deafening silencein my middle school bedroom,trying to ignorethat sad pink pile of my imagelaying fat and loose in the corner.iv.today I slipped on the dress again,stepping my toes into its frigid watersbefore letting it tumble down over me.I stood at the mirrorand decided that the dress was lovely,and
What's the Definition of Perfect?I will never be the definition of perfect.I want to burn magazines,And throw rocks at my T.V.Just to block their noise.I hate looking at a scale,And feeling like I've failed.I hate the number that appears,It makes me want to disappear.But then there is that moment I realize,That this is my own life.I will not live it,By the rules of society.I am my own definition of beauty.And I am pretty damn good at it,I am sure as hell not fat or ugly,So screw all those names those kids said to me.I am me,I am not skinny.I am not prettyNot in societies eyes.But that's okay because I am not fake,I have plenty of mistakes.But you know what,That's okay.Because I feel more beautiful than ever,When I see myself in the mirror.Just as me.Than worrying about others,And running from my imperfections in fear.So guess what,Fuck. You. SocietyWith your magazines and size 0 models,Because that is something I never will be!
A Sick PuppyYou follow him like a sick puppyWho needs attention and needs affectionYou go where he goesEven if he needs privacySuddenly you've forgotten everythingThe other people in your lifeHe's the only one that matters nowNothing else is important