October 16,

A loveless sense of regret

for time squandered and spent.

A fragmented, fractured mirror

for shattered, suffered hero.

Bereaving melodies sing

soothing songs of fading.

A pity given from us,

a flame of love without lust.

But spark the candle to torch;

a hunger's conflagration,

our shadow's fixation

to follow without remorse.

Our paths are darkened roads,

our hand's the candle, the torch.

Stumble in self-satisfying tripping,

or onward, fearless of slipping. 

1) I am a girl I want to die. To wave my hand and say goodbye. 

2) And yet the pain is that I dread. 

3) To scared to die or to be left undead. 

4) Yet I truly believe that life can be turned.  

5) And through a smile happiness returned.  

Now read this through and answer this 

What is true to me and what goes amiss. 

Or is all you see just truths, just lies. 

No one can understand this crazy mind 

“Such a pretty little girl,” he said, blocking the door. He pulled one greasy hand through my ponytail. I looked away from his pustulent face.

“Leave me alone.”

Happy screams sounded from the playscape outside.

When his rotten face brushed my lips, I gagged.

I chose the window, and fell.

In the process of exploring myself

Sometimes..

I find the real me dumped in a book shelf..

I love mocking at others..

Though we're birds belonging to same feathers..

Expectations .?

No..I don't believe..

Still..My heart restrain to relive ..

Guess what ?

I ignore to grab people's attention..

But

Strive to be in their retention..

Usually

I don't take people for granted..

Yet..

Become a granted bait for them..!!

sound echoes when

there's nothing there

to hold it,

and I keep bouncing

between the banks

with tears that stutter

on the way out,

so I let them fall

like angels

ready to rise

like demons from the dirt,

and my dreams

are murdered

by the creeping dawn,

and I can't click my heels

to get home,

just these dull thuds

that ache more

with each attempt,

holding a pillow

I haven't used,

and whiskey could teach

me to bleed straight,

instead of scribbling

bloody messages

for no one.

and it's me.

but I can't read

like I used to.

though I have

enough scars

so all you see

is a grin.

hello. nice to meet you. fucker.

will you join me in the field?

we can murder roses

and lay them on my name,

and you can give a speech

about the tragedy

of my heel,

about the sound of me drifting

as I run from mud,

tripping over the crispy halos

I let break without a fight.

and when it shatters,

we'll see havoc become confetti,

in a beautiful celebration

of wasted breaths

that shimmer on the forest

of my life,

growing fresh upon the rot.