“And neither the angels in heaven above,

Nor the demons down under the Sea,

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.”

-Annabel Lee, Edgar Allan Poe

It’s your silence that just keeps

Screaming back at me.

You didn’t realise 

That my mind capsized,

From the visions in my sleep;

From the voices of the deep. 

What they whisper I cannot say.

Is that why you won’t believe me?

One day I’ll find, I promise, a way 

To show you exactly what it is I dream.

Although I can’t swear on what you’ll see,

Just like you can’t swear that you won’t leave.




Days keep coming back like waves on my feet.

I can save nothing from the foam of the sea.

I’m adrift in an ocean of shipwrecked keels;

and there’s nothing I can salvage from their treasuries.

No part of the sunset that appeals to me.

All of it merges in my memories; 

There’s only brown born from all the reds and greens.

Only, I drowned from swimming in the sea. 

(A/N: It’s been a while since I wrote poetry that rhymed (many months to be frank) and I was nervous about posting this at all so please tell me if I should try this again!)

Where are our magic lamps?

Who put these fairytales in our heads? 

Who brainwashed us to think great? 

Who said that we’re unique;

Our lives are worth living;

That we gain more than we’re giving? 

I have a bone to pick with every last one of the people who said,

You’re perfect.

Because I’m not, 

And I’d prefer not to be falsely fed 


I have room to improve. 

And don’t we all as a race?

These fairytales mean naught

More than lies, beautiful lies,

There to stop reality driving us insane. 


(A/N: In response to someone who said that a magic lamp would do)

Blurred Vision

And I drive myself crazy, thinking everything’s about me. -Heavy, Linkin Park

It’s strange how much we make ourselves suffer. We bother ourselves, we pick fights, we desperately try to hold on to something that makes us look like we have it hard, we try to make it right by proving ourselves right. 

We thirst for sympathy. We label closure as catharsis and speak in labyrinthine riddles, hoping against hope there’ll be someone who can decipher them. Someone who’ll sit with us and figure out what we’re insinuating when, or even if we are, anything at all. Spiralling down underground, secretly hoping there’ll be someone who follows us. Dancing just out of reach when someone pulls us close. Walking away, expecting yourself to be found. 

Thinking that our blurred vision gives our words definition.