In beauty, with words, in form
with emotions, in love, with expression
uneasy routine all.

living between poles
wanting flames,
yet never frozen,
unsure as half bloomed flowers between seasons.

Crown my joys
or cure my pain
but my deadness
it drives me insane.


Sometimes its nice to give in and sound like i've just missed a dose of anti-depressants, but really.. What fuels writing (mine are various states of drivel, but i like them just the same), and many expressions of self are emotional driven; sometimes so much so that we think of their authors and creators as either manic, depressive, or everything inbetween( or outside the normal range of sanity.

Sometimes i give up things, take them as dead because i think things shldn't, or can't go furthur. Sometimes i think that if i took more effort to see things and people to their end, i'd find out alot more about should and could.