WordlessThere is a world I know, where everything is blank.For there is nothing to describe, the beauty deep within.Where meaning has no meaning, for its definition does not exist.Where the past is in the Past, for no one remembers what has been done,for nothing has been said.Inspiration is a withering rose, ideas are a shooting star, passions are a dying flame,Because there is nothing that can spread or fuel its vitality.There is a world I know, where emotions are all dead,for no one knows how to say the words,'I. Love. You.'
The Best Of YouWho are you, when beyond my sight?I am no child, I understand the masks of society.I know that people pretend to be those they are not.I wear a mask myself occasionally,When the situation requires it so.Who are you, when you are with others?When the lies are ripped away,And secrets are lain bare for all to see,Who will you be revealed to be?As humans, we are not perfect.We have been taught to hide our faults.However, I do not wish to believeI see nothing other than the best of you.
The Mind of a WriterWhat you read is what you get.Many readers cannot exceed past that.But if you bring a magnifying glass to a writer’s brain,You may just see what we truly see.Within the mind of a writer,There are not just words.It is similar to a film,But to us it is all too real.Within our minds,We have a simple sanctuary.Either it be tiny or large,Or just a great big desert.Noises may be here and there,And noises, I do not mean distractions.These noises involve the voices of who are real,And I mean our characters, ourselves.What you see is just the surface.Here take this shovelAnd dig six feet deepAnd penetrate the ground furtherAnd fall into our abyss.Words are along our walls.Voices are a frequent sound.Images of war of love or/and hateFlicker about like a skipping disc.Every shade of color is welcomed here.From maroon to auburn,From forest green to lime,And from charcoal to onyx.Everything is here.All I can say,When you eventually crash to the bottomJust open
CanvasMy soulis a canvasthat you paintin miserable colours.I am your masterpiece,molded exactlyhow you want me.With sweepsof your brush,you paintdark, bruising half-moonsunder my eyes.My once-happy expressionturns to exhaustion.You drawwith the dainty brush of laughtertearsthat run silently down my cheekslike raindrops.They drip off my chinand through my fingers.I feel like my last hopefalls with them.You use your palmsand your fiststo smear huge bruisesdown my body.The ugly purple paintis all over your handslike a murder victim's blood,but no onecan see it.The sick, evil wordsthat come out of your mouthpaint thin red lineson my arms and my wriststhat drip withmisery and pain.The narrow streamsare nothingcompared to what I feel inside.My soulis a canvasthat you paintwith your twisted colours.I don't knowhow much more of thisI can take.