A masochist at it's most vulnerable.

I thought poetry was a safe outlet.
But no.

Words are razor sharp and they cut like blade.
They gut into your stomach and leave you bleeding internally.
They crush your equilibrium and leave you woozy.
You can feel your blood pumping throughout your spirit
battering your skin like a musician would a drum.
And Darling I can see you bruising.

But don't you fret.
I've got the perfect remedy.

Just once, feel something delicate and let it
thrive within your being.
Blossom something wholesome and healthy
and put it down in ink.
Because poetry can be a safe outlet.
You just have to have a safe persona.
And those aren't hard to find.

Not all the world is angry, Darling.
Not all the world is hurting.
And you're not hurting all the time either.

You're just burning.

And you're burning because you're brimming
with emotions that you can't explain; and when you try,
you hurt, because you're only describing the pain.

There's more to you than that darling.

You're a symphony of being.
You're a universe of opportunity and
really,
I believe you're capable of anything.

Destroy the world if you want to.