Blessed Tortured Artists

Yup, that's about it, thanks for reading!

"He died," is all I say. And even as I turn away, I can almost feel the hurt on her face. I can feel the bitter guilt that tells me caused it. But I can't let her hope live; I can't let it multiply only to be dashed, so I let the old me die. Maybe if I die, she'll survive, and that's all I can hope for. 

and chase the clouds away. 

You always read: Society is ugly, messed, fucked up. And it's true. It is. But what nobody ever realizes is that society has actually come a long way-- probably because nobody bothers to pay attention in history class. But when you have a superb history teacher, you realize things. You hear about the racism, the slavery the sexism, the poverty, the illnesses of the past couple centuries. Sure, none of those issues are completely resolved. But have we advanced? Has society improved? Heck yeah. So when you hear people say "society is horrible" remember just how atrocious it used to be, and have hope. Reply; "yeah, but it's getting better."

You still crop up in my dreams Every once in a while And you always hide, Like you're ashamed to be seen [Or ashamed to be seen by me.] You're like a puzzle piece Tossed into the wrong box-- I never knew quite What to do with you, And I never could love you, Though I thought [still think] You're beautiful all the same. You've always reminded me Of a five dollar bill in a fountain Of pennies-- too much among The too little, and so you Pretended to be little too [or so I always liked to think].

Nobody wants to be alone-- It's the human nature. You can be rich, You can be successful But the bigger the house You have, the more Empty it will feel. You can pamper yourself, Bathe in your tub of bills And feel pretty boss. For a time. The real joy of money Is spending it on somebody Else. It's caring For somebody else-- And when no one cares For you? Then who Can you love in return? That's the human phobia, After all-- Being alone. So how do you so easily Walk out of a life, As if you never belonged there?

She smelled like cinnamon And pumpkin spice; Sugary goodness Paradise. Flowing hair And breezy smile Like a breath of fresh air, To linger for a while. Then her laugh-- That was really something Among the riff-raff, Eyes sparkling bright As stars in the Pitch black night, Heart fluttering and falling Like fiery autumn leaves.

The tricky thing About people-- They often become What they swore They'd never be.

Her words Are as velvet Butterfly wings, That float soundlessly Off her tongue In eloquent verse-- But they are not heard; Discreet as the flipping pages of a beloved book yet fresh as apple pie. Fear is in her eyes, A soft, bark brown Worn cracked and dry By the lashing of tongues And judgemental gazes That shred the pages Of a life, malicious As fingers tearing through Gauze curtains of privacy To expose the deepest pools of emotion That never should be rippled [but they are anyway]. Oil spills inky black Killing all in sight, Obliterating the light Of her smile.

inner emotions expressed.