Take off the filters layered on a picture
and when wiped away all that barely remains
is the thin frame bruised by words,
and a cluttered dark mind that manages
to produces fields of wildflowers.
My deep emerald eyes placed on my still, rounded face
don't always scintilate with joy, but instead
downpour silently with sorrow.
My chest houses a set of lungs that struggle
to breathe with the ease of peace,
but instead choke on the anxiety created in my head.
Deep rosy lips speak life to others--
while they deliver words of death to my own ears.
A heart torn by almost lovers and fleeting friends
desperately pulses a wild rhythm
At the end of my arms that stretch out to the light are two small hands that hold--
hold love and secrets,
delicate hands that create because that is the only way
I know how to temporarily escape
the war that has been going on in my head for years.