Self-Expressive-art

A veil of tears is clouding my sight Sadness disturbs my mind. And my voice so dry, My voice is so weak. So heavy- like never before. But yet I sit here, yet i watch the dark starless sky. And yet I sing. I put all my heart  in it . And while the tears flood my face, the sadness is carried away ... carried away ,along my song

Beneath a Saraca Indica tree, the sorrow tree, you sat alone wondering and wanting to ask, but you remained still and silent, listening to the heavy sound of fleeting birds. "I live in a small town," you whispered, "not too far from the city." This city, the city that you would frequent, where nobody knew you but they knew who you wanted to be; it became you, your life, your family, your friends. This city was everything to you. Not the people, but the streets, the culture, the cracks in old, weathered pavement. The yellow, blue, orange, red houses. The marketplaces lit only by sunlight and diverse fruit. Each day you brushed your hair, tied

And there were no kites tickling the sky or curiously moulded children dipping toes into the lake's breasted width feeding abandoned swans, paddling with dads. And I forgot my picnic basket again and to tie my hair in a sugar bun in order to intrigue the bumblebees. I stroked the grass in false appreciation of life as now. Smelt the temperature of kisses, blew the drift of ripples that sang higher and flatter than my own whistles at the forgetful park gardener who littered as he picked and fiddled, with his tidy belt. Flowers were proud and wouldn't stop telling me about the curse of being beautiful. 'I don't

"Look." You said at last, exasperated "Think of it this way: how big is your heart?" I smirk at such an easy question, and hold up my hand, fingers tightly curled. "Here. As big as a fist." You shake your head, hold up your hand and curl it over mine. "No, don't you see? My heart will always be bigger than your fist."

Trying to place a thing you can't describe Trying to Remember a place you've never been A word unspoken A name Forgotten A memory that never happened A face described but never seen A colour you've never touched A falsification you once knew A list that goes on forever With a loneliness that lasts And feelings that don't last long enough But although you're alone At least you're where you chose to be You've Never felt so at HOME

So many mirrors in this house Impossible to walk by without catching a glimpse of myself Lay a hand to the face in the glass Is this really what I look like? Is this how I want to be seen? Eyes devoid of natural colour Ringed in thick black paint That song runs through my head again I don't want to be a fantasy Or a passing dream Long black hair and a bright red clip Want to scrub this out, take it off Throw it at the wall I can't bring myself to do it This is who I chose to be Remembering the bright and happy girl Now a shadow behind me These shoes are scuffed and faded Torn from running through the past Turn around and f

Sever the ties that bind Loose the chains unbroken Detached from the Heart that Breaks Let them fall; out of sight out of mind Perceive what you will, the Horizon's not far The show is over and the cast has gone home. So take your bow, take your leave Or choose to stay in character Forget who you are, at least for the Night Alarm sounds, the dream is done. Wake up, back to the world you once knew Only nothing is the same. Plagued with Realization, Infected with Distrust And in the back of your head IT is playing over and over like a coughing fit that won't stop. Your only hope lays in that last smoke Live in it, wallow

You were my first kiss during the time of self-exploration. When lust and love were synonymous and out of control. Curiosity completed me, opened my eyes. To you, to myself. You held my hand – a funny feeling. Our secret. To let me explore beyond your heart. To fill in the thirst of this raging desire. You touched my spirit And so, I question the truth. Who am I? I was never true To myself, to you. The love I gave, I gave none for you. Who am I? A simple question with no answer.

The room is plain, that's an understatement; pale cream walls and bare floorboards, worn smooth by a thousand footsteps. A single bed is in the corner, neatly made with biege sheets. A desk stands opposite it, upon which sits a cup filled with pencils and biros, a stack of paper aligned perfectly to the corner, and a notebook. A small wooden chair is tucked under it. Above the desk a shelf holds a dozen book, spines facing outwards, all lined up like soldieres with no one to fight. A laptop lies at the other end, wires carefully curled up and sitting beside it. A bottle of water and a box of graham crackers are the only other items on the she

All at once your anger dissipates, so fast as to be smoke from a fire. You look and me and smile, a twisted line drawn across a clown's face. "Wanna see something cool?" You ask me, knowing how eager I would be to agree. You walk to the window and chirp, a bird like whistle that has me leaning in, fascinated. A bird, a robin with eyes brighter than the midday sun and wings like pointed razor blades hops closer, seemingly compelled to follow you. Closer, closer and closer still until it crosses the boundary, enters our world through the portal of a window frame. You reach out a hand, so slowly you are barely moving. And, to my surprise, it le