If you ask me why I run to your arms when the rain raps my roof and thunder roars, it’s ‘cause underneath, I’m still a child frightened of the storm. Now my safe space is out of reach, swept by spaces in between, and in this storm I sit alone, through cold and dreary days — like a child, but without a home. — hazel joyce
If it takes bruises for you to play, and your hands would bathe in blood, may the thirst for thunder remain; may you never nip it in the bud. Some have all and some have nothing, and though it’s disheartening to have little, will you move past the cynics, or settle in the middle? In time, may the ones in the middle take center stage. — hazel joyce
The sky’s ashen — does it mourn? Or is it laughing to provoke those icy hands gripping a stem of thorns whose petals have withered like an ageing joke, and whose frozen leaves have fallen below on cold, pale sheets of regret and disdain. Like the blood trickling from her fingertips to the snow, it was innocence lost, it was the dawn of pain. — hazel joyce
My guts bleed, leap, echo the beating of a drum Rolls, rumbles, thunders the vices of a scum. I hold, clench, cradle the ending as it starts, a poison vine creeping the corners of my heart. “Enough,” you scream, cutting the obnoxious weed may be a selfish favor but an act of good deed. I stir, rise, tremble as the sky takes my woe is never felt, even when a friend becomes a foe. Walk away, walk away from the rubble, from it all. May you find peace in the ending. Alas, the curtain falls! — hazel joyce
Here it is — I have mustered courage, I have swallowed that choking fear, but my guts are no leverage when cacophony's all I hear. "You'll get stomachaches from dreams if you swallow too much on a daily dose, and words would tarnish your bloodstream once you get drunk on purple prose. Here it is — the end to all my dread, one step forward, one missing jigsaw piece. But, "Open your eyes," they said. "You're not a puzzle, but a cog in the machine." "Wheels won't turn and lights won't blink on dreams you take on a daily dose. What glory is there in talking limericks and getting drunk on purple prose?" They haven't faded — these hopeful hues, and this flame is weak, yet it grows. But I feel as though I'm delirious, crazed, blinded, drunk on purple prose. — hazel joyce
When there's nowhere to go and no place to run, you were my home when hope was gone You took me away from demons running deep, when monsters came to take me in my sleep When nothing felt true, and there's no one I could find, I've always had you— —but only in my mind. — hazel joyce
These naysayers would put us down,
‘til we crumble and fall,
‘til they steal our sound.
And thieves would rob us of renown
they would stall our success
and keep us in ground.
Summoning storms to our sail flunking our flagship beating us to bail. Cynics only hope for us to fail ‘cause they had a couple of tigers by the tail
— hazel joyce