time's prisoner
waiting to take a step back to realign where I belong
a place I totally invented.
A place we invented.
A place we were born into.
A place with no escape.
In the grand chaos of everything,
hope seems to find a way.
When its that time again and I single out myself once more,
I turn to the irony of hoping to hope, and watch it do all the work.

Love me when it best suits you.
You'll never know my depth.
I'll hide behind my mask until one day
I see blood from your eyes.

That is my rage. I will hide it well with a smile.

You will always see a compilation of an erratic little boy
who knew long ago he means nothing to this world,
thinking - to save his life, saddened the world couldn't come with.

That is my humility. I am proud of every tear;
the reflection of the morality I was gifted from you.

You will never understand the love I have for this world and you.

I don't know who needs to hear this but...
#proudrotaractor #actofkindness

So what if I listen to JoJi?
Here I am thinking I found the right one, atleast someone that makes me happy and you just hate that, don’t you? It makes you sick to your stomach? She's never good enough? She's not tall enough? She has a crooked smile? She doubts herself too much? She's religious? She's not woke enough? She has unanswered questions in her head that she chooses to ignore? She still believes God is a bearded guy above the literal clouds? She has too much family trauma? She's too obsessed with me? She's cheating on me? With my friend?

...wait, what friend?
See...you're mad because she's not you. She's not the rhythm in the songs I tune in with my literal heart to look for something I've lost a long time ago. She's not the plot twists in my fantasies. She's not the sun, moon and stars in my daily dwellings. She's not the inspired questions and hopless quests for answers while I walk in the rain of my inner blue. How I miss that place. How I thought I would never miss that place. How devastated and amazed I am of how far I've come, and still feels like a home I've abandoned. Every rain drop I took for granted back then, each droplet splash I would kill to hear again, each moist step I took without ever noticing reminds me of the times we held hands for the very first time and yet you're locked in the confinements, prisoned in the chambers of my imagination. She's not you. She just is. But you're a princess everyone has abandoned. There is no Mario to step on shrooms, there is no George to slay your demise, there is no Persius to pertify your hatred. You're all alone, looking out into the vast nothingness, bored and depressed. And yet, you're not even mine.



I looked up into the sky and chanted, whoever took away your freedom shall lose a part of themselves and before I knew it, I fell to my knees and I forgot all about you.
Now when I see them, I see parts of you. And I almost, just almost remember your name.

Just as I finished writing this, She called me by someone else's name.

Fighting with her against my winds,
She says Life is running short
When she and I both know the place
Where both time and space abort
in to a meaningless sense,
the answer to all our questions.
A place where word came first,
where she made sense with me
But carbon became our end.

I feel content, happy at rest,
The pressure of the world feels almost weightless to the point where I actually manage to forget it’s even there. Always wished it was like a backpack so I could just take it off and disown it out of it’s own misery.
Why do I then feel okay knowing I’m nothing but half an angle, blood stained hands, chunks of my back in my nails, accidentally clawed out while I was digging out a wing. Why does it feel so satisfying? Which anger am I still holding on to? It feels too good, too alive to be bad and why do I feel alive? Half alive? Because somehow I know if I touch anything with those stained fingers death would be a pardon. Because I’m held back by my own self that turns the mirror around and shows me how consumed I’ve become. After breathing out the flames to the very end in realization, and content, I sit. I contemplate on how easily I’ve managed to delude myself into believing I had done the world another favor and forgetting I’m just another human going through things.
I then wash my hands, mend my wounds, stop mourning my own pity
Then eventually I remember the backpack comes easily off when harmony is achieved.

I was done proving things
to a world that already knows me,
to eyes that gossip my realness to reality.
But I didn't know it yet.

To my brokenness playing tunes,
when my breakfast was warm.
To my search for light,
When I had made my bed.
To my lyric of mortal rage,
When my phone was full of pictures of
Lavender.

To the Me you never see.

At times of clarity, I ask myself why I constantly validate my reality. It feels as if I’m not sure of my own existence and further down that road, second questioning my every move. When did I become so…unattached?
Not sure if that’s the right word..

Does it matter if I go down spiral with elegance?
I'm barely holding on to my own hand from ever stepping off the edge, from hurting good again. I blame it on a writers block when I can feel gravity increment my step into a crawl, but I tell myself that it isn't time, as if I know when.

- mystery ride