Everything burns
Because I'm never given peace.
They grab ahold of my heartstrings
And tie them in knots
Around my lungs.
I think im suffocating
So they pull back my flesh
That seemed too tight against weary bones.
Its agonizing,
Please, stop
But my tongue swells
Like a corpses
And my words are
Trapped by choking sounds.

Everything burns
Because I'm never given peace.
They grab ahold of my heartstrings
And tie them in knots
Around my lungs.
I think im suffocating
So they pull back my flesh
That seemed too tight against weary bones.
Its agonizing,
Please, stop
But my tongue swells
Like a corpses
And my words are
Trapped by choking sounds.

The construction of the human face,
is the way it is for a reason.
He gave us eyes to see,
a nose to smell,
ears to listen,
a mouth to speak,
a tongue to taste.
He gave her ears,
yet she refuses to use them properly
He gave me a mouth,
but I don't know why I talk half the time,
because she refuses to listen.
Her body language indicates that she is aware,
but her eyes,
they glaze over in a way that makes my soul thrash about.
My words,
like pollen in the spring wind,
floats to her,
goes in one ear,
and straight out the other.
Like acid,
my tears scar my skin and
Like a shower,
it never seems to end.
I am not your mask,
you can not parade around through me.
You say that
"Some people don't realize it,
until someone else tells them."
I've told you,
yet you cover your ears like in your youth.
You tell me to fly,
but when I try to jump,
you pinch my wings?
How can I learn
if you won't let me tumble?
I am not you,
so stop comparing us.
We may share a similar face,
but this body and mind is not yours.
I am no puppet,
you can not control me.
You're deft not because you can't hear,
but because you refuse to understand.
You are not empathetic.
You refuse to see me through my eyes.
God gave you ears for a reason,
It's about time you learned to use them --
correctly.

I'm still hung up
like:
I’m a shirt on a hanger
emotions on my sleeve
seems everything tailored
excuse me
if I’m brief
or I’m sounding like a boxer but my curiosity
leads to me being awkward
so,
miss;
see.
I’m begging for your pardon
or at least a small chance to be a tulip in your
garden
a chance to be a stand out from all the grass that
gets you bothered or a chance at second glance the
solution to your problem

I wish I could sleep.
Days on end
an endless cycle
no waking at all.

Maybe when I'd wake up
the world would change
to something better
I'd be better.

I wish Rip Van Winkle
would give me advice
I can't seem to sleep
even if I try.

It makes me feel worse
the fact when I am awake
the people I love
are just asleep.

They are not conscious
While I am stuck alert
Not knowing why
I can't just sleep.

Sleeping for a long while
would be a gift to me
Not waking every few hours
like a newborn child.

If I did sleep for a time
I wonder what I'd miss
I fear I'd miss so much
Wake up and everything gone

I know it's strange
Unusually sad
I wish to sleep
But fear time passing

I hate waking
in the middle of the night
I hate sleeping
when I'd miss everything

The conundrum of it all
Fearing sleep yet need it
I must sleep.
Wish me luck.

A crack in the road that is covered in snow forces my car to halt, like a prisoner trying to pick a vault.
White dust swirls around causing barely any sound.
However, a low hum dances around my ears as I hide away my tears.
I remember every wrinkles and line on your face. You had great fashion taste!
I hope they have bingo where you're flying. Please stop crying.
Never forgotten and always in my mind.
You were simply one of a kind.

I lay my head down
On this uncomfortable couch
& try to find ways to make it
Through this last week.

Four months of sleepless nights
Has passed me by alongside
Two seasons but I swear
This year was different.

Its like the weather had no transition
It felt like just yesterday
That I held my chin to my chest
In efforts to keep out the Wisconsin snow

Now its the end of June
& the grass is green again
But I have this lingering feeling
That I have over stayed my welcome

I'll soon return to the valleys of California
Where she waits for me just like she has
For too damn long but she tells herself
One more week & I'll be home

I know I don't belong here
So I lay on this couch & try
To find ways to make it
Through this very last week...

Four months of sleepless nights
& a whole summer to make up for
All the days we spent apart

A whole summer to make up for
Every
Lonely
Week.

It’s a pitiful hilarity.

An early Sunday evening, a frantic phone call to a voice whom I’ve only met once, I think. We were chastising a mutual friend like the voice and I were two old pals, but I don’t think she knows my middle name, just that I feign being a good person, or rather, that what she sees is a good person.

Linnea.

We were talking about Linnea. About how she took the final step off of the pedestal we had all placed her on for so long. I saw her tumble down like her teardrops. She was well aware of her fall from our graces.

I knew I should’ve seen her plummet. But I didn’t. I saw a graceful descent. I saw finesse. I saw beauty.

I saw her levitate somewhere between the pedestal and the ground, and on days where I was feeling particularly vengeful, I wanted so desperately to see her streak towards the ground like a doomed meteor. I wanted to see her burst into flames as she came crashing to the Earth where the rest of us mortals live, far from the spot among the heavens to which we all assigned her.

On those days, I knew I wanted vengeance, but for what, I did not know.

I think it was for loving her.

No, it was for caring about her.

No... It was for loving the idea of her.

We both had major roles in our school musical. On the evening of the second performance, she gave all of the seniors tiny little cards in matching envelopes, like the cards you put in bouquets of flowers, that teenage sweethearts attempt to fill with novels, and old married couples just sign their name and “Love you.”

I didn’t open mine.

I think I wanted the contents to be something a bit more concise than an adolescent love letter and a bit more detailed than a 40 year old force of habit.

I wanted the card to be her. Everything that I wanted her to be. Everything that I wanted her to want to say to me.

I wanted her to be filled with giddy anticipation while writing my card as I am when I know I get to see her soon.

I keep the card in my wallet. Unopened, still in the envelope. I want to keep feeling that little twist in my stomach of anticipation every time I open it and I see the crinkled corners peeking out from behind the front pocket.

Writing about it now, I see how pathetic it is. How futile my conviction is every time I take the envelope out of my wallet and mull it over with my fingers, as if I am going to open it.

My wallet is my pier, the envelope my green light across the bay, and my legs and my mind are getting tired from playing Gatsby, waiting, hoping for a redemption of an imagined past.

It’s pretty funny actually.

This too is a pitiful kind of hilarity. The kind that makes my chest cavity quake as I slowly begin to roll my chuckles into one another, until I can no longer tell if my shoulders are shaking from laughter or light sobbing.

The punchline comes when I debate between grabbing the letter opener or the matches, but I was never one for timing, and I always place it back, neatly in the front pocket.

Sondheim said it well; this joke could use some clowns. Don’t bother, Linnea.

He’s already here.

Today I walked into Barnes and Noble to buy my summer reading book which just so happens to be super thick and it's 1930s science fiction (kill me now!) Anyways, while we're there, out of curiosity, I asked if they had any John Green books (because everywhere else, they're either sold out or on hold) and they did. The lady brought me to a table. A few of my friends had recommended his works. Scanning the table of books, unsure of what to chose, a guy walks up to me. He looks about my age, maybe a year or so older. He's pretty cute, which is quite the pleasant surprise because usually guys don't talk to me. He says, pointing to The Fault in Our Stars, "I couldn't help but kind of overhear you talking, but I read this and it was amazing." He points at Looking for Alaska. "My girlfriend read this... said it was pretty good." So I say thanks and something awkward like 'I'll have to check it out,' and get The Fault in Our Stars. This small gesture has restored my hope in our generation. The guys in my school are mostly arrogant airheads with no taste in music, in my opinion, anyway. In addition to this experience with a stranger, today, while at a shopping center, I saw a girl wearing a 5 Seconds of Summer shirt, as I had mine on, too. I complimented her and she smiled and said, "Thanks, you too." This small gesture has also restored my hope in our generation. Today I learned that not everyone sucks and that makes me really happy. I guess that if you put yourself out there, ever so slightly, in the right places, you might learn things or make new friends.  What if I'd talked to the girl about 5SOS? Or asked the guy about other books he's read? There are so many opportunities every single day to improve the quality of our lives and we pass them up, because they're things that are thought of as small, but can have huge impacts. I believe that if each and everyone of us tried, just a little bit, to talk to  strangers, the world would be a better place. Not everyone wants to hurt you. I'm not saying to invite some random person  into your house, but to talk to people with common interests, or compliment someone on their shirt. Little things like that, as they did to me, can make someone's day. I walk to my mom with a pile of books. She turns to me and says, "Since when did cute boys talk to you at bookstores?"