English corner
Existing outside of time, by Maria Mehawej
The underlying darkness of my emotions terrifies me.
a hundred explanations to one word, a thousand to one sound, and it all relies on a war between anxiety, insanity and creativity
The paranoid sociopathy invited me somewhere intellect took place
Maybe knowing too much is close to knowing nothing, at all
seeing wars at their best
fire and guns 
it's always twisting and twisting
No power in the world was powerful enough to end it
Pretend saved it, until
And every step that I took,
Hid the light away from me,
Broke my heart that I could hear every heartbeat
and sometimes I could hear the missing ones,
But it felt like they were far, lines and lines leading me to different definitions of the same experience
The lines connect to my brain
And the blood keeps running and running and getting through words, walls of glass built to get away from reality
Sometimes you long to stay in reality but fantasy keeps kicking in
Is love some chemicals floating in the brain or more the mind is capable of building airplanes but when it returns to the same place it fears where it is
all over again
so it cuts itself with the thornes it used to water to understand it's paradox 
and here are more guns pointing at your heart in the never-ending loop of their pretend
I long to cross my hands and hide my being,
my heart my mind
like they did
but I refuse being a victim of modernism
pretending to water flowers that arent mine
and now idk if I point flowers
or guns at myself
because you pointed guns at me decorated with one kind of flower  
Didn't know if it was my favorite
But that was the way you showed love
You thought the roses would comfort me
but I couldn't stop staring at the guns
The road behind them
Until you run out of emotions
you run out of words 
you run out of time
And you're telling me
I wasted your time
While you've said words that sounded like a lullaby
Until it got dark, it was nighttime,
It turned into a love song
Then it turned into pain
My blank spaces are totally empty, and I'd get surprised if art was ecstasy
I still couldn't see them
But they're here
and in the end
all I saw was absence of colors
Comfortably numb,
But don't you dare give up on calling a line that's burned 
Everytime I want to breathe you take the air,
you ruin its colors, you breathe it
and you blame my own colors for mixing with yours
like what belongs to you doesn't belong to me
and what belongs to me doesn't belong to you
Stuck with the color blue,
I wanna deal with red lights now,
But I'm always stuck there
Where I believed that red lights were the start alert
You convinced me that it was okay romanticizing enigmatic emotions like a reckless teenager
you claim you build my art
But my art does not come from a place that looks like you
Art may come from what you caused me
every time I know, I get closer to insanity, to more poetry
The more that you know the more that you feel touching the sky
But that's just the most horrifying phase of growing up
Realizing that the less you know the better,
wanting to destroy the world but actually wanting to destroy yourself in the first place
As kids, we used to draw lines and lines
it used to look like a mess
And each year 
we get to signs that lead us to the meaning of a line, connecting the dots, finding art in chaos, accurate explanations in behavior,
Maybe someday I'm gonna know what all these unexplainable lines mean
I light up my spectacles to feel energy,
Characters and execution of love, died for love, musicians died because their own music was too loud,
and here I am,
The lights in the theatre fell off, it burned but it got dark after death,
and just like that,
the silk and velvet disappeared,
there were no curtains, it was cold
but it was home, therefore it will always be artistic 
It holds something that cannot compare to the world in a million years, it's everyone's story...
If you don't tell your story,
your love will,
If you deny it,
lovers won't,
and actors will reveal their true self when lovers knock
The spectators were clapping their hands, and they didn't know why,
But tickets sold out as soon as it was tapping on the ideas they fight but didn't know why...
it's not always fair,
But a good laugh was needed after all, how ironic 
your character is confused when nothing mattered
I would give up so many characters to read one last line of your books
The art of being above you plays a role in the spectacle of derangement,
when they were designers of costumes that couldn't compare
disturbing enough I peeled my skin off when I was destroying the costumes I inherited
I guess inherited ideas that aren't yours is the worst line of books,
and here I am, free of all of them and a prisoner to my own
dehumanizing myself feeling closer to nature
Murdering love burying it in the last shelves of my unconscious mind so my subconscious thinks I burned it
But my poems were never perfect
So far away from perfect,
Sylvia plath said:
Poems at their best
Can do you a lot of harm.
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