I either love so hard, I die.

Or I am dying so painfully, I lust for love.

Some say I may be extreme.

I simply reply with how much I am trying to feel alive.

For someone who is awake and brerathing, my eyes feel closed and my lungs empty.

I put on a face like I am one with the milkyway and a facade like I know how trail star dust in every step I walk.

But beneath, I am scared.

I have been afraid to truly live.

I have been afraid of growing up.

The owl tells me it is time for change.

I try to water myself with self love and give myself light with concious growth.

I am discovering happiness.

It lies deep in my own rainforest of a heart where strong trees grow and rain consistently brews.

I am discovering how to become grounded and therefore become aware of needed boundaries.

The key rests in the dormant volcano of my brain. 

I am recovering my sense of creativity.

It's laid in the hospital bed of my sight and is beginning to heal.

I am strengthening my voice so I can defend myself.

It's been laying under the welcome mat right next to the houses spare key. 

I am processing my anger thouroughly.

It's been locked up in the depths of my being because I hid it away from myself.

My saddness has been at the forefront.

It's taken the wheel and hijacked me for a while now.

I am processing.

My spectrum is expanding.

And so am I.