Birth.

A baby's wails,

Her first breath of existence.

Hope.

The planning starts,

For her future, their future.

Excitement.

Her first moments,

Captured on film, never forgotten.

Love.

She is fragile,

So soft, heart of cotton.

Worry.

Her first day,

Her first step into school.

Pride.

She comes home,

Her report card screaming A.

Sadness.

The rebellion starts,

Her words against her parent's.

Disappointment.

She stays out,

The house an empty shell.

Despair.

Now they wonder,

"Where did we go wrong?"

Desperation.

She had changed,

At least, in their eyes.

Surrender.

They gave up,

Their precious child, long gone.

Abandonment.

First to leave,

They left her, all alone.

Desperation.

On my part,

Trying to make them realise.

Really.

All those years,

I was never the same.

Always connecting,

travelling from one place to another,

but never moving.

Without a start,

without an end,

always varying in length,

in size.

Lines,

always part

of a bigger picture,

bent and folded

to our own desires.

Structured,

random,

lines are always different,

but never changing.

The basic foundations

of art,

of architecture,

the basic foundations of the visuals

of the world we live in.

Lines,

while created against their will,

do not move

unless they are made to.

We build them up

to perfection and then

we leave them,

hanging,

standing,

for the world to see.

Lines do not move

unless they are made to.

They stay,

and sit,

and look as pretty as they were meant to be

but people don't see lines.

They see the bigger picture.

Always the bigger picture.

No time for vacillation

Put on your gear, onwards to destination

The castle hidden beyond the mist

Onward, to slay the vicious beast.

Goldfish eyes leer at you

The beast looking only for a quick screw

Chubby fingers reach out, hands the colour of rotten potatoes

In the other hand, he holds a dildo.

You hold your sword out

The walls tremble at your furious shout

He smirks at you, bares his yellowed fangs

The smell of semen overwhelmed by metallic tang.

A duel to the death, this time.

No more excuses, now it's showtime

Long is the time you have trained for this

You will not be the one to receive death's kiss.

Moments pass, your blade collides with his throat

White blood cascades down his naked chest, an unholy coat.

You emerge triumphant, your body your own to control

You exit the castle, this time in a relaxed stroll.

Gone are the pants of want, of need

The frantic movements, blinded by greed

Your breathing slows, the mist clears

Take a deep breath, soak in the atmosphere.

The sun rises, the glare is blinding

The light is understanding, forgiving.

He watched her in her deepest sleep

No toss, no turn, her face the picture of calm.

The tension had left her body, her long unruly hair neatly framed the sides of her face, as white as snow.

She was a beauty, an angel sent down to earth.

He placed the flower in her hair, careful and gentle. She is at peace.

He watched her in her deepest sleep

No toss, no turn, her body still, her soul at rest.

The restless girl before him no longer moved a muscle. The room was deadly silent.

The room was never silent in her presence.

He tucked a lock of black hair behind her ears.

She was a beauty, an angel sent down to earth.

He watched her in her deepest sleep

An angel, cast down to the earth, summoned by the devil himself to make his life a living hell.

He could still see the red tinged eyes behind eyelids that will never again be opened.

He traces a finger across her cheek.

She was a beauty, an angel cast away from heaven, to fall but she hit earth before she could reach hell.

He watched her in her deepest sleep

The fallen angel that had made him what she was meant to feel, the demon that had turned him into her hell, her selfish kingdom of indulgence. She was a beauty, an angel sent down to earth.

He watched her in her deepest sleep. She was a beauty, an angel...

Not anymore.

Take it. Go for it.

Own it.

It destroys you, it does. It propels you so much deeper into the abyss of self indulgence, of sin, of self destruction.

It is so very dark here. You cannot see a thing. Temptation blinds you, throws a cloak of darkness over your mind and body, but you aren't scared, are you?

No. You enjoy it, you crave the darkness. The barrier between your wants and your conscience. You enjoy that momentary feeling of numbness, of the world revolving around you, and you alone.

So you give in. Again and again. Until one day, you're caught in the act. Under the covers with yet another stranger, in the store, pocketing packets of candy, at home with your hand in the cookie jar. Guilt washes over you. It threatens to drown you.

But it can't, because you're already sinking into temptation. You realise that, you know that temptation has now overpowered guilt, and it saddens you. You wonder how it got this way. You try to swim back up, out of the abyss, desperately searching for a single speck of light in the darkness. You can't, but you can swim to shallower depths.

You give in to guilt.

Now you are sinking, self hatred overwhelms you, threatens to throw you back and forth in the waves of depression. You continue swimming. You're almost there, almost out of the ocean.

You're at the surface.

The surface, the real world. Filled with nameless strangers, packets of candy, jars of cookies. There it is again. The darkness. The soothing cloak that seduces your mind.

Take it. Go for it.

Own it.

And you do.

#poetry

What is strength? How do we measure it? Some say it's the ones who can lift the heaviest loads, some say it's the ones with the highest mental resilience, those who never break no matter how great the pressure. Some say it's the strength in numbers. But what is physical strength without intelligence, mental resilience without empathy, and strength in numbers without cooperation?

Strength is nothing, and everything by itself. We all have strength, we all need strength, the force required to exert authority, to gain respect, to ensure our own survival. But strength isn't just that.

We all have our strengths and our weaknesses. Our good sides and our bad sides. Strength is but a measure of how accomplished you are, of how much potential you have towards success.

But strength isn't everything. Neither is wit, or stealth.

Strength is nothing if not used to its fullest potential, and even then, it still isn't everything. We all have strength. We need strength. But we also need values. Morals. Intelligence. We need each other, and we need ourselves.

Strength is but another part of the Balance, a measure of who we are.

Strength is everything. Strength is nothing.

Strength is an instrument, and we are the players.

And also nothing, all at once. With change comes another issue, every problem solved will lead to another, for the world will always be in balance. World peace is an illusion that drives us forward to improvement, but there will always be problems we have yet to solve. I think that needs to change.

I tell her I'm okay. I'm doing fine, as if I wasn't on the verge of breaking down every minute, with every flash of painful memory that comes back to me. I send her a virtual smile, hiding my tears, my pain, my sorrow. I tell her I'm not affected when my dad walks out at 10pm to buy a mattress because my parents can't stand the sight of each other after their heated argument. I tell her many things, so many ways of saying I'm okay. She responds only with one question:

"Who are you trying to convince?"

Who indeed? In a conversation where both sides know the truth, what good will lying do? A single "I'm okay"- no, multiple versions of it, will it really change anything?

Will it make me okay?

I decided that no, it won't make me okay. No matter how many times I say it, it won't make anything go away. I know that. She knows that.

So why is it that even now, my only response to "how are you?" is an "I'm okay"? Like a standard hotkey response to a test question I've heard too many times both the question and the answer have been imprinted in my mind.

How are you?

I'm okay.

I'm fine.

I'm okay.

Who am I trying to convince?

Everybody wants to be perfect. Nobody wants to be the odd one out. Flaws are hidden, strengths broadcasted so clearly in an attempt to overshadow their weaknesses.

We live in a world striving for perfection. A world that shuns the imperfect- abnormalities, mental disorders. Wars are declared for survival, for change, for conservation. Peaceful negotiations turn into protests into riots, riots that only end in thousands of casualties.

We try to change the bad, correct all that is wrong, yearning for that perfect world.

World hunger. Poverty. Slavery.

Everyone who stands up for what they want to change, they close the gaps just a little bit. The world is pieced together- but pieces are missing.

Gaps in the crust of the broken planet, filled with water that is drained with every passing second as we try to put the earth back together. Back to where we started. We forget that the ocean is as important to the earth. The ocean is as beautiful.

Flaws are perfection. Beauty is imperfection. Imperfection, is perfection.

The world will never be perfect. When world hunger is resolved, another problem is bound to occur. The same goes for slavery, for poverty.

But there is perfection in the balance, for where there is light, there will be shadows. Shadows that reflect who we really are.

Everybody wants to be perfect. They forget one thing.

You can't be what you already are.

Please, please let me out.

Furious, desperate scratches, a desire for freedom that leads to the loud echoes of a body slamming into a door.

I can't take anymore of this.

Exhaustion. Fatigue. Resignation. A body slumps against the door, so close to freedom, and yet so far. Freedom is intangible, a taunting dream that haunts her waking moment.

Why are you doing this to me?

Flashes of memories. Of sadness, anger, regret. She thinks maybe she deserves this.

I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry.

Self-hatred wars against pride, and she clutches at her head, tries to shake everything out. Shake everything out, until she is empty again.

Please make it stop.

Emptiness is so much better than hurt. Numbness is preferred over pain. She starts to rock back and forth, sobs wracking her body.

I just want everything to end.

She stills, looks up. Dries her tears and smiles. Her eyes are empty. Her smile, devoid of emotion.

No more.

She decides she doesn't have to play this game. Freedom was tangible.

Freedom is in my hands.

A knife to the throat. To the wrist. A gun to the head, a rope to the neck.

I can be free in so many ways.

She is gone. Free of this life, free to be her.

She is free.