Free Spirited Rebel :/? Whimsy Goth Goddess

Contemplating on my aura. Can I describe the plight and avoid being a vocable buffet? Rebranding a rebirth to be more than peri-meno and unsolicited advice to the chat. Is it banishing graphic tees and changing your nail color? Defining an era where you get to do what the fuck just because you can. This shouldn't be too hard for me. I used to be a rebel. In the sense of boldness and uniqueness. Now I find myself tangled in the ghosts of whimsy forgotten. My masking, from what was really hurting me. Protecting what should have never felt safe to grow. While I shrunk a part of me. Dressing for expression became my way of being.

Urban whimsy goth reclaims innocence and imagination within a gritty scape. But how can youthful delulu coincide with a deeper maturity that comes from premature pain? It's giving tainted links of fairy dust. Shadowed by concrete gargoyles that come alive at night. From rebel to goddess can be tricky. The truth teller wants to save the world. The queen knows that it is. The free spirit yearns to be heard. The diva will always be the scene. But what does that even mean now?

It's fun to play with style and dress. Expression grows through trends. But self remains. The nakedness of your life stories can speak jeans, clogs, blouses and blazers. Or maxi, flowy, lace and leather. Flowers and lightening. Pastels smeared on onyx. Torn or fitted. Keeps us hidden. Only to be found by Mama Moon. Who sanctions me for duty. In flesh suits and desperation? Cause motherships don't always come equipped with love. Adjusting to pain isn't a heavenly host. In a quirky coat or chunky wedges we're weird. And pledge allegiance to it. (lol)

loops & moon gates