Nivvy's Story Buffet

How am I redundant, I am the procreator, I am the raiser, Some have the nerve to say I hold a stronger connection to the child for we were once binded as one, I am the producer, And therefore forced to do nothing else, No, not because of concern or worry that perhaps our innards would explode from the fumes of life, No, its because woman cant handle the blatant truth, They say that we do not understand because real life is hard, We don't know what we’re going into. They tell us we don't know better and therefore are imprisoned in the cage, we must grow to love, But is that really the point? Let me fall, Let those years of fury be the most relishing of my life, Isn't the point of this choice? Freedom is revoked because of the fear of subjugation. They shame us due to our innocence and ignorance, Yet never let us be free, What do you want from a woman?

  I’ve spent the last few weeks practicing how to mourn you for the rest of my life,  I already know my heart will forever miss the weight of yours, My lips will forever miss the graze of your, And I will forever miss what we never got to be, The possibilities are endless, But I lay without a muse, No ending at hand, My pages are tattered, You are gone, I’ve taken up a life of liberation, I sought for risks, Because I have nothing else worth my fury, my rage, my joys, I’ve lost all i possibly could, Within you, I lost myself, So if you ever have to battle through the pearly gates, Call for me, I’ll die to defend the soul standing before the mother of this ache, You my love, Would only find hindrance due to our entwinement, And I wouldn't mind hell with you

I painted a picture, Of us before we died, A masterpiece that I tore to shreds once completed, I need not a reminder of the beauty that was stripped from me, I tore my painting to shreds and realised the canvas was bare, It always had been, I just saw the white as fluffy clouds shaping my future, I just saw the white as the purity and innocence I once had, I just saw the white as perfection   Now I see the flashing lights sent to blind me, Now I see the white cells of my blood trying to shield my wounds as they seep out my bloodied heart, Now I see the cold, desolate snow you left me in Now I see that my masterpiece was only ever special because of the love I had for you, The love that made you unique, The love you breed, The love you thrived from, I put you on some pedestal,  But you were simply average, And we were simply nothing, Actually no,  We had something, But I had loved too much, I had painted masterfully, a tale of tragedy, I had flown too close to the sun, And...

Bounded by war, I stay stagnant, I stay prisoner to the dark edges of my mind, Withered poppies, painted a red that bleeds, My heart now ice, Void of joy, brimming with agony, My tempest of torment, I am woven shut, I have been killed, But groped of the joy of not feeling,

There's this foreign concept about rarity, I dream dreams, Perhaps they don't differ from others but why should that matter, Why should it matter, they're not new,  If shared by others, just as pure? Rarity implies a resistance to the idea of ambition, And my right to succeed certainly doesn't rely on those around me Why does my uniqueness need to batter the rest, The concept of rarity is competition, Judging normality is as disgraceful as judging the opposers, My aspiration shall not be forced upon by society, I shall not deform my life to please the outsiders, My life may be traditional, But who's to say the rest should follow?

The sun is also a star, But we never look past his razor blades that grate my skin, The eyes they blind, The skin they paint, He’s melted my heart once more, Sent the fiery rays towards me, Dear girl dont let the diamonds leak from the crest, You do not deserve more, The sun is also a star, But I cannot shoot past my desires, He never listens to my wishes, The sun is a star, But it had crushed my dreams and dissolved it to mere fragments, Of imagination

Do I look like a poet? Does poetry seep through my veins, Stinging the tip of my tongue? Do I make you think of pretty sentences? Associate me with melodies of the storm, Do I look like art? Am I worthy of words, Worthy of your pigment in my life? Do I shine like my metaphors? Do you seek comfort in me? Am I your muse? Am I purely perfect? Or am I brutal, Am I hurtful, Do I remind you of the truth? Do I cry and yell like the thunderstorms? Do I remind you of what you hate the most? Do the ballads I sing sound more like the reprimands you run from, The burdens that chase you, Does my tongue kiss your soul with the sweetest of pleas, Do I make you shed tears as I plague your soul, Do you associate me with the winter sobs at noon, Do I feel like pain? Do my words make you bleed in black and white? Do I slay like my zeugmas, Do you run from reality? Am I your conscience? Am I cruelty in its best form?