We come and we go.
We need to find ourselves again.
Must we all look towards others
to do so?
Why can you not look to me?
I whisper.
Accusations, Assumptions.
Violins and flutes play silently,
their strings like that of my heart.

I am afraid to write when I feel like this.

Who would want to read my writing
when the only things I can write
are just depressing?
Few more days and maybe I'll be
out of this low.
I hope.

do not be angry at me
for grabbing onto anything i can
to save this,
just because you had nothing
to grab onto.

in a trance

eyes staring aimlessly into the night,
focus on the breathing,
numb.

i dont believe a thing you say,
but im hanging on every word.

insecurities throbbing through my pulses
like that of the beat of the drums
i hear in the background.

please take me home.

Pure emotion
Raw feelings
An anger I have never felt.

I am no longer inclined to keep myself hidden.

I will be heard.

She begins to fashion an idea in her mind.
How romantic is something you feel in your bones,
your body, your mind, your soul.
How romantic is something that ignites a fire,
a burning passion.
How romantic is something that allows you to
forget the world
and float away?

Its not so romantic at all.

A pale, ghostly face
staring out into the mist
from a top story window

is so cliche,
until you have seen it
like a movie scene
thrown into your own life.

You wonder who she is,
What she is thinking,
and perhaps,
Had you really seen her at all?