When we fade into the darkness, who remembers us? 
Are we nothing more than the dust we return to when our time is up?
I remember when I was young, I dreamed about fame. 
I always wanted the whole world to know my name. 
Now, my dreams, my visions, my colors are tame.
I think about a legacy, and these words come to mind:

                                           "Legacy. What is a legacy? 
 It's planting seeds in a garden you never get to see."

If this is all I am,
If I'm meant to be a lamb among wolves,
then I shall turn these wolves into sheep.

This poem is inspired by Hamilton, specifically this quote.

Theodosia will soon be able to be previewed on WordPress.

Stay tuned

"Lose yourself in the art of selflessness," they say.

Lose yourself in the art of forgetting yourself by dedicating your heart to the meek, the poor, the hungry, the homeless, the thirsty, the naked, and the oppressed, for what is better than a life of poverty and self-service?

No personality. No flavor. Just gray.

Selfless, abnegation gray. 
Her eyes are a festival of warm tears; 
her ears are a melody of cold fears,
for the aria she once heard has turned black—
black as a tire that has hit a flat.
The world is a void of endless solitude,
for the world she knew is quietude.
Vibrations rise through her feet;
now, she won't accept defeat,
for if she is the mighty dragon,
she will wave the flag and
sing her battle song:

I can hear,
I can hear
but in a different way.

I can speak,
I can speak
but only with my hands.

Deny me or don't;
tie me with rope;
I certainly won't
give up my hope
to be seen as someone
who can hear
and speak.


Creamy-walled rooms bare the marks of each year.
Another year passes;
another year is gone.
An influx of new and old faces smacks me with tears;
once the wound has healed, another mural bleeds into dull palettes.
Another year passes;
another year is gone.
New voices. Old ones fade to oblivion.
Each face shreds like paper into the garbage of darkness.
Another year passes;
another year is gone.

Intertwined with the watery mural of the pane,
mounds of bricks pass by my eyes.
Each one holds a story. Each is different.
It's funny how the bricks seem to be the stronghold of history, of stories when everything comes and goes with the fast life of the clock.
The rooms never hold the same people.
The bricks never hold just one story.
The air is never the same.

But time rushes and rushes and rushes;
time, a rush of autumne that start anew when eyes blink.
And in the end, life comes down to one question:
Will they remember?

Mirage

I stand in a river of happiness. Everywhere I turn, I see my face against the mirrors of smoke, Lips contorted into a smile, when really, it is broke. I thirst for it—Passion beyond compare,Compassion to despairI lust for it. An addiction feeding me;I cannot quit.What fades is the need to be free. Not unfit,but out of wit. Nothing seems…

In the night, stars dance across the ceiling as a neon parade swarms the circle. 
Vibrant diversity rings in each color, in each promenade.
A mass of euphoria, of ecstasy, takes over each swing, each dance, each act as they contort themselves, risk themselves, outcast themselves all for the sake of twinkling under the stars.

Me? I'm the ringleader.
I stand high on the tightropes with my hula hoop and flags, signaling for each animal to pass through in their stampede of dissonance.
While everyone else in the audience is a smear of gray, of mob mentality awe, I stand out like a checkered array of black and white.
Ballerinas plie across the wires and ropes;
Contortionists stretch their limbs in mistrewn directions;
Daredevils eat fire and exhale it as if it were nothing but air —
for all the crowd knows, it is.

A parade of misfits, of diversity warps the audience's minds with awe and reaction.
Dazzled in the starry praise for such a moonlight occasion, I, the ringleader twist into a bow:

This life is no carnival,
although things do appear larger than life sometimes;
it's quite the opposite in fact:
Life is a masquerade.
Thank you for being first heartbreak. 
Thank you for putting all at stake.
Thank you for making my heart ache.
Thank you for breaking my heart.

You pushed until I saw red.
You pushed until the last straw.
I saw it. I broke it. I know it.
Me. You. Not us.
Me. You. Not us.

I threw my mind away;
I abandoned common sense.
Now, I've been free ever since.

Thank you for being the one to lower the bar.
Thank you for making it clear what goes too far.
Thank you for making me as mad as a hatter.
Thank you for making it easy to put no much flatter.
Thank you for being my first heartbreak.

You're a kaleidoscope of color in my eyes. 
Much like a rainbow palette toned into the dull hues of a storm,
You drain the world.
You bleed through light until the page is sodden and weeping.
Something unremitting—
something that swells against your very soul is a toxin.
Nothing neon. Nothing pastel. Nothing lightening the woe.
You're a network of red wine, pouring through my very veins,
intoxicating me with a callous kiss.

Such is enough to render me comatose:
when the darkness breaks, all that is left is callous cowardice.
You bled through the pages with your flames;
You intertwined me on a high of vileness through the prick of my skin against a spindle.
Your words were poison to the network of thoughts.
You ripped my wings from my body.
All that is left is red.

Now, in the agony of naivety,
of idiotic obstinacy,

my youth is a dull kaleidoscope of rainy hues,
seeping through the ivy of hope.

The world, much like the human race, is stitched together into a clock; 
at some point, the hour hand, the minute hand, and the tiny second hand will stop at its permanent midnight.
Life was meant to be Paradise, but the juice of the fruit created a mechanic toxin of complexity: somethings are black and white; others are gray.
Above all things we learned, this be the worst: fear.
While human curiosity expands by the minute, vanity itself is the lord of nature.
Why pause in the influx of time to have stopped vanity and fear from reigning when the elements can be bent to our very will?
Why must there be plain patterns in the human race when we can be a patchwork quilt of diversity?
Stand up with pride.
There's no shame in being a diverse hue.
There's no shame in human identity.
But treat your pride with a humble mind: let not fear reign; cure fear with the ability to fathom another diverse hue.

Demons dancing 
inside my mind.
Skulls are prance
before my eyes.
All that I know
it blows inside.
Every last foes
waits for my cry.

Why, oh, just why
do you haunt me?
Why, oh, just why
can't you stop please?
Why, oh, just why
this misery?

Demons inside
they hunt and kill.
Demons inside
they kill and still
are inside my
mind of darkness.
Why, oh, just why,
did you start this?
Oh hope, I hope
it was worth it
'cause now I'm the
heart of demons.

Demons like me
will run freely,
Haunting the weak
Speaking meekly.

In the morning,
It's a warning,
I'm a demon
alive inside.
But still I don't
Even know just why

Demons like me
We hunt and kill.
Demons like me
We kill but still
are inside your
mind of darkness.
You are asking,
"Why, oh, just why"
did we start this?
You hope, you hope
it was worth it
'cause now you're the
heart of demons.

Just let me go.
Just let me go.
Speak easily,
not evilly.
Just let me go.
Just let me go.
I don't want it.
I don't need it.
Demon, go.
Demon, show
Yourself outside.
Time for goodbyes.

Demons like you,
You hunt and kill.
Demons like you
Kill and will
Never let go
Of the darkness
Holding you down.
It ain't worth it.
Go on, curse it.
Never am I
The darkness of
you fools and ghouls.

Demons, you fools.

Demons inside
they hunt and kill.
Demons inside
they kill and still
are inside my
mind of darkness.
Why, oh, just why,
did you start this?
Oh hope, I hope
it was worth it
'cause now I'm the
heart of demons.

Demons dancing
inside my mind.
Skulls are prance
before my eyes.
All that I know
it blows inside.
Every last foes
waits for my cry.

I'm a demon.