Are you a burnt little matchstick?
Struck against scraping sandpaper
Till you shine bright enough to be a star,
But the joy of being enough is robbed by the end, without going far.
Burnt, crippled, broken, and used,
Now showing no more potential nor promise,
You are thrown away by the world,
Tossed in a pile without a thought,
The light you brought, they forgot,
So they have simply left you to rot.
-Maya Desdemona
Fret not, little child,
The monsters under your bed are long gone,
The next monsters you must fear
Lurk within the minds of men.
It enslaves their heart,
And lives off their soul,
Construing their figures beyond recognition.
Turning them into a shell of their former person.
Fret not, little child,
Such monsters are a part of life,
They live within us all and live all too well,
For why else would poets of old admire your innocence,
Your childlike wonder, lost to the seas of time?
– Maya Desdemona
Luminousis 