Then so many people would still be alive

still warm

still safe

or it would be the same

it is hard to tell with humans

so let us instead build a future

where we don't have to ask

what if

There's not enough hours in a day, to be me

Not enough hours so be who I want to be

Working long hours,

late shifts, early days,

not enough time to help them all

not enough time to even just call

not enough hours to say it's all okay

not enough time to smile and laugh,

not enough hours to waste a day,

not enough time to be a kid,

not enough hours for sweet nothings,

not enough time to calm down-

I think it's time I make time

I had became the villian, you may be wondering why? Here is why, villians are misunderstood. We do good things but not all the time. I had lost my best friend and my brother. At that moment in time I had pissed off all the wrong people so I was called the villian. But like every other villian I am misunderstood no one knew or ever cared what was happening. They were so quick to say, "Oh, she is the villian." But in reality I had lost my best friend and was angry at the world. So being the villian of my story always stuck. But no one ever wants to get the villians side of the story. So no one knew anything. No one bothered to listen. No one bothered to hear me out. No one bothered to see all the good I had done before. All they could think about was the bad angry villian.

There was a single darkness

Darkness seen

It...

Darkness heard

I remember

Spear

The symbol it was

I remember

The spear

Held by my own hands

Pierced my neck

I totally remember

Now in hell

I see devil

Around the corner

Pleading with me

Begging me

I understand though

He just doesn't want to get hurt

"DON'T BE AFRAID! I won't hurt you!

OH! DON'T CRY little devil! Mtsmm.. ehiiii,.. "

How I remember

The darkness

Depth of depths

Me it was

I think I remember it all

"WHAT ARE YOU AFRAID OF?"

AIN'T NO MORE DEVIL

YOU WANT HIS CORPSE?......

Oh! Come and see!

POOR DEVIL,

HE TOUGHT BEGGING WAS ENOUGH!"

.. .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . .

she walks on the edge of the water

longing to once again belong to its frigid depths

staring up that the sky that edges on darkness

a home of hers

one of many

she cries for reasons that are sad and not

drowning in the fabric of elaborate dresses and cloaks

hiding her face with crumpled hands

she is made of paper but she will last forever

she wants to be a butterly but relates more to a moth

fragile and dull

a heart of stone and a soul of glass

eyes clouded with visions

of places that are above and below

young, sad wench

hatred I never meant

misprision 

constant supervision

how could you treat me so?

but I know

something you couldn’t

I know you wouldn’t 

but it still gives me chills

you crawl to me against my will

devised smiles and regret

you won’t let me forget

forget the shaking

forget the aching

the thousands wasted on us

each session I discuss

ways to rid of you, your eyes, your face 

this new hell I have to embrace

but there you sit, existence tottering

and I can finally look in your eyes 

without mine watering.

-j.l.b.

girl sees rainbows in motor oil. no one sees rainbows in the girl.

she is a dilation, a negation, of her anatomy. girl kisses the webbing

between her fingers, pretending to meet the lips of the faceless entity

of female. girl wields a two-pronged caduceus, walking the tightrope

of identity. she clips her nails too short and relishes in the striking brine

of it all. the metamorphosing heart of this girl reverberates, molten, in

her chest in the presence of men. the crease of her lips softens, folding

upward, dragging lip tint into her cheeks in the presence of women. girl

fluctuates. girl hydrates, sucking on paper straws like ambrosia, swooning

when she sees the girl working the drive-thru. girl doesn’t know if she is

jealous or smitten. she sketches a charcoal drawing of herself as atlas, holding

up the sky as iris takes her sweet time deciding whether to prism. girl is

weak against a slab of stone, but strong enough to keep going. a titan, yet

flattened nonetheless.

i'll see you at the end of the river-

we traverse in our tiny boats

bobbing on a sea of moonlights and stars

nearly drowning in the foam of waterfalls

and getting slashed by rocks-

but we were immune,

because when the current slows-

there is light

and the end is not the end

but the beginning

of a whole new world.

This does mention Depression and Anxiety. May be linked to Dysphoria? I don't know I'm trying to figure myself out. Other than that, have fun.

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I write music. Like, feverently listening to the greats of the genre, and cramming on music theory that relates. Maybe it's a waste of paper, but I don't know. It's fun. When depression takes over, it's just kind of, there. When my depression takes hold of me, it's easier to write. It's hard to play, but I can viusalise, and hear in my head what I want it to sound like. It's just, easy, I guess.

A flat major, 160, 4/4. Arpeggios, and scales. Fingers gliding across the keys, blissful melodies, and harmonies, to match. A musical mask, to alleviate a burning sadness caught in my throat. G#, B#, D#, F#, G#^7 I. Moonlight Sonata.

Power chords Laced with elegance. This can't be captured through distortion, can it?

Scratching pencils to paper. Runs that would normally be impossible are written and played to perfection. I can't play them. Tears cloud my vision. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. AGAIN. STOP FUCKING THIS UP.

That's better. B#, G, B#, (D, F, G run), D. B# dominant seventh, first inversion. B#^7 I. Running through the chord, moving to the next chord. Blood, sweat and tears, soaking into my covering. This can't be touched by fluids, don't let it get touched it's fine, good.

Pure panic, an idea. Write it down G major. It's stupid. Scratch it off. Rewrite it. That sounds good on guitar. Improvise. Try vocals, realise that you are an instrumentalist for a reason. D minor. Fuck.

This doesn't work. Consumed by emotion, write more. Sleep on it, and decide I like it. I add brass to it. Write more to it, and have a fully established piece. next day you hate it and scrap everything about it, and all of the papers you wrote about it get shredded and recycled.

Regret it. Try and rewrite it and hate the newer version. Rinse and repeat.

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Fuck, I love writing music. Emotions just fuel my anxiety, and that fuels my need to write music. So that's that. Time to write some more, 23:10, let's goooo

Take care,

Winter.

i hide in a shell

of small expectations

it protects me

from the reality

that surrounds

when i feel brave

i peek out

just to let people know i'm there

but once i'm seen

i sneak back in

i hide in a broken shell

of small expectations

light seeps through

its cracks

my eyes memorized

by what lies beyond

unbearable truth

a burden i don't want to bear

the fear of disappointment

of failure

of not living up

to great expectations

so

i hide in my transparent shell

of small expectations