{This is a set of poems made when recovering from a mental breakdown. I very much wish to progress beyond this, to tell those who say "you’ll move on," the smack straight at the cheeks of those who say "stop whining" while telling them to not cry a bit and get communal assistance so I can feel valued while recovering. But of course, let’s never forget what system we live in - I need not point to the money signs... No music-aides, maybe some of Myuu’s collection of horror music.}
My symbolic auto-drawing...
Awaken from wet slumber,
a husk of a kid shambles up,
taking the sticks and branches
and into the fire does it go
Taking a match and letting it burn,
burn so fine on a branch that it feels
a feels a great combusting pain now
for the damage done to humanity
Rises a rises the flame here,
twists and twirls all about
under the whistling winds
and the plough strikes at it
Stabilizing the fire to the center
that the flame constitutes a being
that marks why the kid is a husk
and into the fire do they go now~
Screams and moans subdued
doth the kid start ailing now in
the eternal inferno of the fire
they had created themself now
Is it far that the kid made it
all alone with those nimble
and tiny, indelicate excuses
for fingers now? I thought not!
Yet they believe they had created
the worst life one could imagine
- even after seeing the worst
and asking how so they are bad
But it matters not as the kid
flies with the flying embers
as a lil’ fire fly and free to go
and perhaps make a better life
Waking up from a sweat
and in a pool of horrible,
dost this kid with a plough
unsure of what they remember
A crackle rips through the air
and bounces about in the ears
that the eyes had to see what
has happened to the fire made
Alas, the flame had died and
all the actions ever made burnt,
burnt up to a fine ole crisp now
and a smile is all but what is left
They hear the faint pings,
phone is snatched and raised
above a small fire there now
- the phone is unscathed now
But the noises in their head
had all ceased to be and quiet;
only the whistling winds, a flame
and the tweeting birds made noise
Coming inside they see red,
a finger pressed on it and it
tastes like cooked tomatoes
- a mop strikes and cleans it
Slumping on the bed staring,
the blueish hue becoming red
and feeling the support of pillow
- eyes slowly close to rest in chaos
The muscles aching their pains,
the mind’s throbbing ceasing now
and the phone picked up for eyes
- a reminder of who they are: nobody
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@f3nix and 
@calluna... c: