Xanadu
 

To pertain to, Appropriate for another To be unique yet not a bother Knowing your place today Begins with unknowing your pride To be the property of, Existing for the sake of another The concept of god: human idolization, a vice, a lover Teetering on the line of purpose and encapturement To be desired, Getting lucky to find another Warming the ice around my four-leaved clover Sired to the sense of value Celibate to being alone yet still lonely internally Replace anothe

I belong in the silence between utterances where my name rests and no one dares to reach for it. a spirit once whispered, you are worth so much but not more than the person next to you. their truths fell like gentle rain upon my shoulder, an anchoring and liberating sentiment. I belong in the little things: a door held open, a quiet companionship, laughter at an inopportune time. I need not glow by myself. were one big galaxy, not brighter nor dimmer, just stars who have come

The air is thick with a sweet metallic scent. Smoky fumes and gunpowder redden the whites of my eyes. A soldier lies in the dirt before me. Broken bones bore through his bruised flesh. An image I've seen countless times before. My teeth grind together like a mortar and pestle tearing holes in my bottom lip. My calloused hands form fists at my sides as my uniform which once stood for nationalism now stinks of dishonor. Day after day I watch as I aid in destruction and devastat

Beginning. Once again In wild delirium Boundless Incorruptible, unscorchable. Contagious outbursts of Unloosed hysteria. Tangible palpable solid Adrenaline Pumping to heartbeats. Steady rhythm growing louder And louder until I take root Above. Loud, bubbling Euphoria Coursing through my blood. Conceived from deep inside my gut Continually strobing, Reappearing in my chest And exiting in an unyielding breath of musical laughter. Stress—it ended with squeezing, Straining,

All my emotions are put up for entertainment. All the happy, frightened, smiles and the ugly all accessible for the whole world. All my pretend is real. My clothes are picked out for the character, but they are still itchy on my pale delicate skin. I do this to make people feel something out of my own feelings. I open my arms and volunteer my affection and sanity to put on a good show for you and mostly so you keep watching. I pull down my eyelids until they swell up and my

During second period Chemistry, the room should have been a quiet reaction vessel–stable, controlled and ready for learning. Instead, constant side conversations bubbled around me like unwanted by-products of a messy reaction. While my teacher explains how activation energy determines whether a reaction proceeds, the whispers beside me rose in volume, disrupting my concentration like impurities destabilizing a perfect solution. I tried to focus on the periodic trends she char

Expectations keep me grounded where without them my head would linger in the clouds– Like birds blissfully drifting on billowing breezes, objectiveless, lost. In their absence I build my own– I set the standard high I aim for altitude, but I keep myself tied, tethered to the safety of the earth. Under restriction of responsibility I reside, I thrive. I belong to the ground. I belong under pressure.

My eyes dart towards the horizon. Drawn to the setting sun, With its shining, vibrant hues. I open and exhale slowly, savoring the moment with each breath. Salty particles lingering on my tongue. To turn away from its taste would be to deny myself. I swallow… Letting the saline sit. Preserving me, the briny ingestion keeps my body level; My mind clear. Again and again, the glistening waves gracefully greet the shoreline, Each infiltrating the pores of the sand. My toes drift

I belong in quiet I belong in the calm When silence drifts on When black envelops the sky When gray clouds drift above And rain falls on rooftops When the sun’s rays Shine before the world wakes I belong in quiet In the weight of blankets Warmth folding around me And when the fan hums softly Cold air drifting onto my skin When fingers brush paper Pages turning slowly I belong in quiet In the slow drift of my thoughts, When I realize, without trying, I am happy I belong in..

There I sit. Staring at the perfect portraits pinned along the walls of a classroom full of life. Surrounded by voice, passion, and value, layered like acrylic smeared on a palette. The easel stands tall, proud, and patient. Covered in emotion, as it represents yesterday's feelings. The brush lies still, waiting for the gentle stroke of the hand to touch its calm bristles. Charcoal dust coats their fingertips, as they glide it against the canvas, blending in the perfect hazy