The right to be mad

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It runs deep, it boils from the chasmic spaces in-between your bloodstream.

They say contain it, they say smile.

Their lips form shapes that spell out the words, calm down.

Calm down.

How can I possibly be calm?

Must I pretend that the climate of this world, doesn’t put me in a state of distress?

Why is it that only the expression of happiness is deemed acceptable ?

But then I remember they do not want you whole.

They tell you that your anger and your sadness is something that must be purged.

But do not let go of your anger.

For emotion is a thing of wholeness.

But display your anger in such a way, that they cannot call you angry.

Use your anger and show them that you are determined, you are definite.

Even with your anger, you are wholeheartedly whole.

For what is a human without their range of complex emotion.

Many will say you don’t have the right to your anger,

But the right is yours and yours alone.

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I’m slowly forgetting the sound of your voice, the curve of your lips. I’m slowly forgetting the feeling of your arm hair brushing just slightly against mine. And with it, all these small inconsequential memories. I’m slowly losing interest in everything. I don’t listen really, I don’t listen to anything or anyone. Nothing excites me anymore, no small sparks of passion to keep me on my feet throughout the day. I don’t even really enjoy music either, not like I once did. The sound of it leaves me feeling, a tad bit numb. All I can do is write words, words that when formed together aren’t even good enough to be typed onto a blank page. But that’s all that’s left, a vacant space, a hole. I often wonder why it has come to this. It’s no one’s fault, but my own really..Why did I allow myself to fall in? Why must all beautiful things end in tragedy? Why must they end at all? For what is a writer without beauty? For what is a poet without tragedy?

For a poet without a muse, no longer has a reason to write.

But write they must.

And I will,

even if it means, no longer writing for you.

Siren

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If I could be anything, I think I would be a siren.

Without all the horror.

My sweet sensual song, would lead you straight to me.

Away from all the frustration, death and wreckage at sea.

I would call you to the large mass of stone, just slightly above the water.

Where I would then, taste your lips and drag you down under.

Burning Paper

The room is dark.

Lit only by the faint shimmer of a candle, burning.

I had wrote something melancholy, but full of life and passion for you.

I planned on leaving it somewhere I knew only you would find, but then suddenly I changed my mind.

Anxiety creeped up over my shoulders and and found its way inside. Underneath my skin.

Will he appreciate your words?

No.

Will he think of all the time that it took you to write such a profound letter?

No.

Would he…no he couldn’t possibly understand or care about the thoughts that dwell in your mind late at night that provoked such a letter.

The embodiment of romance, I thought or maybe it’s a representation of fear.

Fear.

That’s why it’s burning.

That’s why the faint shimmer has dimmed and the light that once lived has receded.

All that lives here now is fear and girl trapped in her mind, in a dark room