I am made of laughter.

Laughter that is counterfeit,

Actual,

Startling, 

Reliable.

When I throw myself to the extremes, 

It's the way I get through.

Maybe a false sense of hope, maybe not.

I am made of graves.

Graves of happiness, 

Sorrow,

And every now and then, the ghosts of my past.

I forget sometimes though, 

That watering graveyards cannot reverse death of matter.

Nowadays, it's been unfathomable more with thoughts,

Thoughts I really can't seem to remember for some reason.

I am made of pain.

Pain that electrifies my cells.

It weaves networks of throbbing memories all around my soul;

I cry with every inch of my body.

Maybe now, I think so, at the least,

I cry from relief of the pain of letting go 

Rather than holding on.

And somewhere my mind keeps hoping that it's not just a hallucination.

I am made of symphonies.

Symphonies of honey and gold,

Drizzling and clacking.

My notes dance high and low,

And I know, believe,

I am an orchestra without a conductor.

A musing mind of music,

I'm trying to lie in between contraltos and clarion calls.

I am made of reflections.

Reflections of other peoples' emotions.

As much as I want to be myself,

I hate to know that a large part of myself

Is a reaction of someone else's acts.

While trying to crack open haunting mirrors all day long,

Shards of glass pierce me

Until I bleed elements.

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