thoughts.

As you pack everything away, wipe down the walls, and box everything up,

 

You lock away my freedom, my happiness

 

My soul rests in those boxes that are constantly shut in my face

 

As my creativity dies.

 

My feelings wither and rot down to scraps

 

And the life inside me and my space dies.

 

The artsy scars of paint, polish, beads, thread are my blood

 

The rain water is my oxygen

 

I thrive in a chaotic world,

 

Where stories are told,

 

And fables are born

 

With the aid of my music sending ripples down my spine

 

Ripples that no one else feels, smells, or sees.

 

And when I express these feelings through dark writing the message is always missed;

 

I am in love with death, destruction, and chaos.

 

I want to be death. But not dead.

 

I want to be love.

 

Loved deeply, like in a movie

 

Where love is black and white,

 

And young.

 

The fluster of romance confuses me.

 

And the night is a dancer 

 

Her dress made of stars and moonlight,

 

Her hard to read expression looking down on the world with anger.

 

Everyone thinks the sun is angry.

 

Because she is hot and dangerous,

 

But she isn’t jealous, 

 

Or mean,

 

Just lonely.

 

And the night is blamed for bad things. 

 

The electric rush of noticing a new thing 

 

About a familiar face

 

And the longer I stare

 

The more their face changes.

 

Anger scurries away under the shelves

 

The feeling of triumph and bitterness collide

 

And I feel endangered by vulnerability.

 

Music takes over my body,

 

Possessing me,

 

Forcing me to dance.

 

I sway form side to side,

 

Praying that the golden hour of my fever could last forever,

 

Until the song ends

 

I am no longer in Hawaii

 

The sun is not setting

 

I am in my room.

 

With artificial light and no windows.

 

I race upstairs, hoping the ghosts don’t nip my heels

 

And run to the rain

 

To taunt the sky and collect the water

 

To make potions that will do nothing but sit on my desk

 

And fail to make me rest.

 

I am restless.

 

You insult me

 

Without knowing the full story

 

Of how I spent hours making this outfit for you

 

The outfit you mocked

 

I bathed for hours 

 

Lathered and scratched myself dry

 

Just so you could say

 

“Gosh, you need some deodorant.

 

Take a shower

 

Wash you hair…”

 

I hate it.

 

It takes me a moment to realize 

 

Im anxious and nervous

 

Nervous about opinions

 

And night

 

And being alone.

TheDemiDevil

MD

15 years old

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