The starry sky.

Oh, don't keep me away from the stars.
They're my only escape from this tired, tired world.
Let me see them and wonder why they're up so high.
Let me gaze vividly and trap them in my eyes.
Oh, the world has never not known an instant of happiness,
When it wasn't looking up at the sky.
Let me go, let me fly.
Up into the starry night.
I'll disappear into the black haze. And you'll never find me again.
You'll never see these eyes drip,
Water reaching the shore.
I'll never speak a word.
Nor will my chaos silence the world anymore.
Here I go:
Goodbye.
Goodbye..

Planet Alien.

I'm losing my soul like one loses pennies: Never realizing, at first, what's missing and then slowly coming to the crushing conclusion that you have no pennies left. That is if pennies were as important as souls. I lose myself a little bit everyday. Everyday that I don't open the book, I lose myself. Everyday that I don't bother smiling, I lose myself. Everyday that I don't offer help to anyone, I lose myself. Everyday that I stay still in my bed after waking up, trying to bring back the pretty dreams, I lose myself.
I do not want to lose myself.
But still I do.
In my dreams, I imagine the world to be light and fluffy and pink, raw in it's emotions and abundant in it's love. I picture people accepting me just as I am. Flawed. I picture myself happy.
But in reality, I live in a too-green world, with too-green creatures and I am Grey. They stare at me. With their hollowed eyes, they ask me why I did this to myself? Why did I become so imperfect?
As if I have a choice. 
As if my brain is not it's messy, bloody self, folded more times then anyone can count. As if my brain is arrange and divided in neat pencil-drawn squares, all fulfilling their given tasks and I can just click the ''Perfect'' square and step away from all that's bad in me.
Why do people pretend that everything in this world is fine when in reality, there are children dying every day; mothers losing their sons; hunger taking over the world like a tyrant. How can anyone be happy when there is terrorism and corruption in the world, still. Why don't these thoughts mess with the sanity of other people, too. I see them laughing and crying over mundane things. I see them making mistakes, knowingly. I see them being the heartless, careless creatures that humans are famous for.
And it breaks my soul. Little by little, everyday.
Because I know. Because I see. The ugly truth that lies beneath the happy facade.
Because I know that one day, a bird will fly over the ruins of my hope, and will sing the song of destruction.

Oh you, with the bottle of sour liquor in your hands.
Swaying back and forth, on the pretense of happiness.
Are you only ever happy when you are drunk?
Sailing away from pain on a boat of glass, know this:
Pain has a sour-sweet sensation:
Just like your bottle.
Oh you, who have never known true happiness.
Only that extracted from the bottom of a vessel;
That bottomless vessel.
I ask, do you know what pain really is?
Or do you only know what you feel?

Oh you, listen well:
Doomed are the critics of the world.
Doomed am I, you say.
Doomed also is that liquor trapped in your hands
Doomed also, are you, trapped in the hands of liquor.

They told me the sky changed colors every time you looked up. They said you could touch the stars if you stood on your toes and reached real high. They told me the world was round and green and it spun and spun and spun.
They were wrong.
The sky is blood-thirsty and tells me to stay away. The stars are rude, indifferent and unreachable And the world doesn't spin; it rocks back and forth and back and forth; until, I tip over the edge.

The Past Me.

When I look at yesterday,
eyes bright and souls,clean,
Do sing the song of true happiness-
not this sorrow,
this tedious sorrow.
My heart aches for the past.
But shies away from it.
For I am so much more
And so much less,
then I used to be.

The stories we tell.

When I was a real girl, I smiled wide for the camera. Teeth and all. My mom took the pictures and I stood very very straight. Bag on my shoulders and a white hairband pulling my hair back . I hugged the house helper- my partner in crime- tight and then jumped on the bus, helped by two sets of firm hands. I sat in the window seat and on the way back played games of paper with my mates.


When I was a real girl, I woke up excitedly every morning, eyes brimming with the hope of a good day. I braided my hair back and never forgot to put in the Harry Potter book in my bag. I did not hug my partner in crime because you cannot hug people that are not alive. Two firm sets of hands helped me on the bus, but this time my own. I sat in the window seat and on the way back, sung songs.


When that real girl died, I stopped  smiling for the camera. And I woke up empty.
When the real girl died, I cried every night to not go to school.


One day, with eyes hollow and smiles plastered on my face, taped too tightly to get them off, I left everything I knew behind. The days of paper games were gone.


The girl who died inside came to a whole new world. Because in this world, she was not dead. In this world, she could start again- alive.


One day, a dead girl rose form her grave and started smiling. Not with teeth. Those days would not come for long. But a whisper of a smile. A little hope amidst un-ending chaos.

Hostile.

You can spent so much time away from people.
You can create your distances, you can build your walls.
But they come with hammers and break it down.
They come with fires burning red in their hearts and tear your little walls apart.
Not to talk. They never come to talk. They come-
To see what's left and what's been torn apart.