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Sing
When the audience doesn’t clap for my sad, sad tune. That I sing in monotone – blew through the microphone, like a wind so untouchable.
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Feverish in this shivering stance. Everyone’s supposed to stand still, but I’m shaking. But I guess, I’ve always been different – as long as I don’t fall.
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My Secrets
Shut within her locket, memories, that corrupt her sense of stability to the ground. Fireworks corrupt her mind with the intention to seep her through the limits of her illogicality. Corrupting my mind with verbal words and melody, seems to always go this way. Corrupted by not being able to verbalise my feelings, because it’s always me who’s illogical and no one else.
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Schizoreflective 