Why Fall In LoveThere are always the cynical ones,those who could really care lessAnd they say,"Why fall in love?I don't need anybody else.It's just a waste of energy and time."Why?Well, one does not ever mean to fall in love.It's a natural occurrence in all human beings.You never realize itUntil you hear them laugh andsmile at the sound.See them sad and instantly long to make it better.Feel them smile at you and want to freeze that moment forever.It's a disorder of the brain,But it feels so good;An addling of the mind,Yet it brings you so much more happiness andhopethan you've had in a long while.And even if it doesn't work out,No matter what happensYou will be happy if they are.(Right?)
Jenga Is a Dangerous GameOh, please don't use words like "forever" and "always".I get a little dizzy when you say them,And my careful, precarious stack of hopes could fall down at any minute.Though I don't and do wish you wouldn't,You build it up, nourish it, make it growEach time you are kind to me.Add a block for every smile.Cause my heart to fly, my soul to sing;Make me want to dance with you until the music ends...But please, don't use words like "forever".I'm falling.My tower is too tall, and I can't affordTo let it collapse on me, too.
banana fudgeHe was like a song I wasn't sure I liked or not yet. But I'm trying to be more open-minded about music, so today when he carefully placed my hand in his (as if he were asking permission), I smiled a little. I said, "I'll allow it. But only for today." He smiled too, only it was more like a smirk because we both knew it wasn't just for today. We were tiptoeing right along the precipice, even though the ground was about two feet down. Hey, wait. Slow down, heart. I don't know that for sure...~(Meanwhile, a few months later)~ I am positively nutty for this song. There isn't a single one like it in the world.
SkyeShe was as blind and beautiful as her namesake,Ever changing and evolving with the seasons of her mind.She hid not a single emotion.She always said what she was feeling.Her face betrayed her, and she knew it not.If you needed someone to talk to, she was there.Always.Every sensation experienced showed clear;Even if you didn't want to see.Sometimes you even forgot she was there.She was calm, catastrophic, serene, stormy, heartbreaking, deep, confusing, ponderous, perfect, haunting, mysterious, amazing, inexplicable...(And, of course, always nice to look at.)
Maybe I'm Not...As brilliant as Sherlock Holmes....As inspiring as Mahatma Gandhi....As beautiful as Princess Diana....As humble as Mother Theresa.But I know that I amA good, loyal, true friend.And that counts for something...Ne pas?
Forget tsunamis.Man: The world's first Natural Disaster.
Say Cheese.Hey, you can smile, right?Go ahead. Smile for us.If you don't, people will complain you're depressed and ask questions.So, come on. Lift the corners of your mouth (like this, see?) into a curved line. There we go. Nice and sweet. Kind of like those kisses he used to give you.Next, say you're fine. Add more artificiality if they don't believe you. Hold back tears.When the worrisome inquirer finally gives up and leaves, hide all feelings that may prove problematic.The next day, wake up.Repeat.
WordsmithsTo all those who admire me, admire any author(simply for being a lunatic which in all tongues is called a writer):There is something you must understand.These words are not ours.We did not create them.They simply sit, waiting quietly in the dusty wings of our brain.We are the directors of the play, telling the words where they must go, what message they must give to the audience, what they must represent.The words, so quiet and compliant,Impact others if we know how to use them skillfully.For we are just hoping you will enjoy the show.
MusicMessenger of emotionUnorthodox, upliftingSimple yet complexIndescribable by all accountsComforting to the soul
FrostbittenWinter is her favorite time of the year.It's beautiful. Silver and blue dance around with one another in a waltz of freezing passion as snow and ice douse the land in a blanket of boreal glamour. Glass windowpanes become easels for falling snowflakes, frost etching into the smooth surfaces in intricate and unique patterns.Winter has always been her favorite time of the year, and it always will be.It is not because of Christmas--no, even though she loves the holiday, it is not what sparks her strong fondness for the star-colored blanketing across the land. Her infatuation with the snow and ice and everything cold has to do with something that most people don't truly believe in.A boy.A boy whom she met long ago.She still remembers the day like it was yesterday. Running around in the forest, laughing and tasting the snowflakes as they fell down into her parted lips and melting immediately on her tongue. All bundled up as a precaution, even though the winter has always been kind to h
Broken and despisedLittle girlOnce so inocentNow broken to the coreOf her very beingHer once free mindNow trapped in a nightmareHer once pure heartShattered into tiny piecesHer once hopeful soulOverwhelmed by darkness and despairAnd no one noticesBecause she hides her scarsUnder long sleevesBecause she hides her painBehind a fake smile...
MercyYou're like a fallen angelA dusty doll on the shelfYour eyes still to the ceilingCounting the secondsThe spans between the rise and fall of your chestCutting through the tortureTracing the bites on your stomach with shaking fingersCursing VenusMerciless bitchDrunk behind the gym during classSo brokenHelplessYearning and mourningNothing but a scared little boyFace pressed to the filthy bus windowWatching mommy wave goodbyeYou're a broken wine glassShattered between stiletto heelsBranded with ruby lipstick and the stick of apple wineBabe, don't try to shove your bruised knuckles in your empty pocketsBrush it offShake your blonde head and smileTell yourself that you're going to be fineNot moving a muscleDeceit in the corners of your eyesNo bend in the sides of your mouthBegging for mercy
Mother's LamentDaughter, daughtersad and pale,your gold hair hidby widow's veil -so sad the endingof your tale,no word to make it right.The summer sunhas passed you by -so many tearsI've watched you cry.I touch your handbut you just sigh,I cannot ease your pain.He left you hereto wait aloneas he fought warsso far from home -your fingers touchhis cold headstoneas you walk in cold sunlight.I look at you,you look at me -your eyes are lostand so lonely.I wonder whatcould set them freeand make you smile again?
Micaela.It was time for you to leave,Now you should see the scars through my sleeve.You had taught me how to have fun,But now I fear that has all been un-done.If only you could see what I've become...You may have left long ago,But I am still missing you though.Where are you now?I feel empty in-side without you here.People say I'll get over it, but I don't care.Without you I find life hard to bear.Do you know when you will come back?I feel my pains and sorrows starting to stack.I feel like a complete and utter fool,Beginning to cry when I see your old friends at school.They are a constant reminder of you.Though you have returned to the U.S.A,I hope to again, see you some day.I will wait for that day to arrive.It shall be for all that I strive.I miss you,And for that I will stay alive.Always remember that;I'll miss you, forever.
*Ideas we set in inkDo not mirror reality.No matter how hard we think,Our words are not actuality.In writing, all that one can doIs wish upon an asteriskAnd hope that wish comes true.
We Are What We Repeatedly Do.I am laughter. I am song.I am deception. I am wrong.I am gossip. I am shame.I am anger. I am pain.I am kindness. I am light.I am goodness. I am right.I am envy. I am sin.I am hatred. I am gin.I am charity. I am truth.I am promise. I am youth.I am neglect. I am dope.I am progress. I am hope.
Dear SocietyPaint me over.With your words, your rules, your regulations;Your policies, contracts,your abominations.Suffocate me.With your lies, judgments, sins,infatuations;Your hate, your order, your secret combinations.Stifle creativity, unravel joy,Throw around common senseLike it's just a toy.Redefine our limits, standards,Color outside the lines.You are in charge, not those who designed you,So go ahead and polish 'til you shine.Once you've gone and had your fun,You'll be completely smooth.Of course, it's better for everyone,No ugly semblance of truth.It'll be just as Montag said,Nothing to bother us.Nothing to hinder us.So I'm just here to say:I'm done fighting you.I don't want to anymore.So I'm giving you permission.You can wipe me across the floor.After all, I'm just an air bubble,Standing between you and total control.I'll just sit back as you crush me,Watching society take its own toll.
fake it till you make iti don't want to live on this planet anymore.so i'm packing a rocketship to mars(no you're not invited),where the seasons don't change andthe people forget.i can learn to forget too just give me some time.i can write an entire book on how to lose your memories,if you want.you might want to find someone elseto help you make those memories though, becausei'm the kind of person who's never seen a shooting starbut sits in the darkwhen there are meteor showers outside.i'm also the kind of person who ignores your phone callsand hides under her blanket.maybe for the same reason.step one:make a paper crane. burn it, starting with its head.the wings should be last, don't make something that can't fly.(i can't imagine being a penguin.)step two:build a wall. anywhere.maybe you can even tear it down afterwards.step three:change your favorite color from his eyes tosomething that can't hurt you- like maybegrass green or baby blanket yellow.maybe buy a n
Weightless I walk, and sameness weighs on me--the same gray sameness....Then I turn a new corner- And in a spark of newness,All becomes full of color, and light, and fresh air again!The weight is lifted.....
Only Those That ImagineMurder most foulin the tale of two citiesWith Robin Hood and Shakespearecalling out the lines.And Sherlock Holmeswith Poirotfiguring out the crime.Every book tellsa lying truth.Every book has a worldfor your exploration.In every story, true or falsethere is some one to followand every story, without a doubt,has someone to root for.Artemis Fowl and CadelKaterina too.All the thievesall the storiesall the daring rescues.Follow the kingfollow the princefollow the farm boyand the cross, little girl.Enter the gardenand smell the secret roses.Every book tellsa lying truth.Every book has a worldfor your exploration.In every story, true or falsethere is some one to followand every story, without a doubt,has someone to root for.1001 Arabian nights!Magic and djinn!Wizards, witchesSorcerers and enchantressesThe dusty booksthe flying broomsticksthe stories that we love to tell!Every book tellsa lying truth.Every book has a worldfor your exploration.In ev
TiredI'm tired.Tired of feeling lost, afraid, misunderstood.Tired of wondering if I'm letting someone down by the choices I've made.I'm tired.Tired of getting my feelings hurt, my ego bruised, my heart broken.Tired of showing these varmin called emotions.I'm tired.Tired of being me, of being weak.Tired of trying to be this person I cannot see.I'm tired.Tired of all the pain, all the struggle I've put upon myself.Tired of not being the person I was.I'm tired.Tired of hiding, hoping, and healing.Tired of listening, learning...letting.I'm tired...I'm tired.
The LibraryI stand in the old stone building,watching the shelves dissolve into a maze;their walls a barrier that I need,All around me I hear whispers,between books, and paper; and wordsI have returned to this old library for solitude and comfortlife has been harsh of late,so it's back to shelves and ancient papers of olden days,their flavor's sift beneath my tired eyesThe stories they holdthe secrets they can tellslip through my consciousnessthe bindings; some old some new,some leather, some hardthey, one and all slide beneath my finger tipsI am alone, it is only me and the old man behind the deskI do not see the wind banging the old crooked windowI do not hear the rain beating the old shuttersI see and hear only this sacred placethe smell of books, the smell of dustthe smell of corridors long forgottenI am drunk with the smell of this placeI am dizzy with the prospect of greeting old friendsand making new onesslowly, carefully I traverse these sacred rowspic
The HeroA citys call, late at nightA mothers scream, filled with frightWhen all can do is hope and prayI come just in time to save the dayAgain and again I fight the fightWith strength of will and powers mightI toil and work for no rewardJust to give a future to look towardBe my bones broken and my heart to tearI must stand my ground and show no fearThey cheer and chant and give me praiseBut in truth it all comes in a hazeDespite their love and all their hopeI ask how I am meant to cope?How many will come? Maybe zeroWhen it comes time to save the hero
tranquil thursdayrainy day. cocoa.small, warm coffee shop. a book.current status: peace.