Buzzing bees, crawling ants, lady bugs on your knuckles.
Does the sun wave and wear sunglasses?
Or do the trees never have enough leaves?
Don't act so sweet I don't feel the cavity until it's too late.
But you're not candy.
Grow and nurture, talking care to clean up your wake.
Would you come back for a plant that no one watered?
May 17, 2019
May 17, 2019 at 1:13 AM UTC
Will I be thinking back to you this time next year?
When the snow becomes water on the cement terrain outside...
Water weighs a lot.
And for how much I cry about things I have a lot on my mind...
Just like we were told the clouds felt like when it rained.
The point of this was you are on my mind and I don't think I'm straight, I just don't want a relationship.
Mar 9, 2019
Mar 9, 2019 at 4:19 PM UTC
I have yet to solace anywhere apart from the library.
Large spaces for large ideas...
Did you notice how tall the ceiling are?
Or did you just notice the person standing on the second floor?
The silence hides and protects, but also gives away anything. But I keep my mouth shut so that way the world no longer has to hear me speak, filling it with something that doesn't want to be heard.
I learned that if a tree falls in a forest, it makes a sound if the sound waves hit the ear drum of a living thing.
I've made waves and instead of Art, it was a screechy animal trying too hard to walk and talk like everyone else.
Sounds like a duck, must be a duck, right?
Flesh and bone, yes, but maybe that was on the only meaningful similarity. Humanity for the sake of being human, is not enough to keep people together.
Feb 12, 2019
Feb 12, 2019 at 2:52 AM UTC
I used to write poetry.
About brown eyes symbolizing home. Sporting events didn't make sense until it got cold out and you were still my warm sun.
Did we dim each other?
The sun and moon dance around each other, reflecting and blinding. The sky as a side effect - a byproduct.
Don't be a byproduct of me trying too hard.
But we're not day and night. Metaphors of space fall like we do, caught in the gravity.
You feel like my dreams.
Free. Alive.
Belonging.
I belong in a school hallway.
People moving back and forth. Back and forth. Away and back. Away and back. I always come back.
But I won't come back here.
Jan 30, 2018
Jan 30, 2018 at 4:22 PM UTC
I am...no, we are more than just shapes and colors.
We are flows of energy and ideas and concepts.
But I'm not special for this. Thinking this.
Joke and name to laugh at the stereotype referenced, but at the end of the day a label won't matter.
We tag and name every being like it's a logo in a shopping aisle.
But all it does is leave us isolated on a cultural isle of ignorance and arrogance.
We are not products to be advertised and consume in one bite. We have depth, but how can we find that when there's too many people around to be able to expand my chest cavity enough to really feel oxygen getting to my brain.
Only to choke on the by products of over-production and over-population.
Jan 30, 2018
Jan 30, 2018 at 3:58 PM UTC
I'm sorry for the distance between my heart and mind.
All my experiences are first ones and I'm not sure who all I want involved.
Treelines show me there's hidden microcosms all over small worlds and places to run and hide.
Tagged with wires and chips, I'm on a life support.
Communication and Social Interaction.
I'm a stereotype. Try hard.
Caring - I'm weak.
Trusting, I'm loving.
Advantage of me is not something you achieve - it's freely given.
What you do says more about you.
Than me.
Jan 30, 2018
Jan 30, 2018 at 3:54 PM UTC
Get away from me
Take your convenient gifts and your annoying habits.
No means no and stop means STOP.
There's a word called respect and it means just because you have a ***** doesn't mean you're at the top.
Equals don't track each other, equals get paid the same.
Equals aren't expected to have one rely completely on the other.
To not be allowed to do what they want to do. To stay at home all day because that's "our place".
Does "boys will be boys" mean "boys will be controlling, glorified for being sub-par, and hurting others as 'letting them know their place'"?
Oct 4, 2016
Oct 4, 2016 at 9:57 PM UTC
I think I know what it feels like to be dying. The feeling in my stomach telling me to ***** yet nothing is in my stomach to come up.
A grip on my chest, my lungs, tightening with every thought and every word that isn't the secrets I'm keeping from those I love.
I can't breathe anymore. I can't breathe.
Stars tapped to the ceiling above my bed just aren't enough anymore.
Planets hanging from string just make my heart ache for the real thing.
I wish you were here. But I also wish I was here too.
I keep saying "I'm doing alright". It's better than fine, I guess, but alright seems to be the best way to convey that I feel like I'm slipping away and the only thing that can bring me back is something I can't yet comprehend.
Losing myself. If my skin and bones were as see through as they feel, what would they say?
My chest feels like an empty hole that used to be good and just. I'm not lying to her, I'm just not stating the truth. Why can't I tell them the truth?
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 10:27 PM UTC
Anger, irritation, and general unhappiness.
I remember being alright and not knowing what to do with that.
The day I started wanting to be alone escapes me.
The day I stopped messaging people and not wanting to see them.
Stopping caring where I was going and what I would be when I got there.
A black wound in my chest where I used to care. Blown away by my own apathy and distancing.
Get away from me. Get away from me. Get. Away. From. Me.
Guilt let's me keep a handful of people near me.
The ones who make me feel like I can stitch up and cover up the hole in me.
Sad songs speak to me but angry ones do too.
I don't know why I'm angry.
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 9:50 PM UTC
Getting older I’m realizing what I miss
I’m old enough to remember people I don’t see anymore, remember who I was and miss a part of her, and to listen to a song and have the artist used to mean something to me.
Ghosts of the past brush at my heart, not quiet causing wound, but causing pressure and pain.
Visions of what was dance in my head, and I’m old enough that they’re no longer fuzzy or filtered with the unknowing eyes of a toddler.
When I come close to being back in reality I realize what I’ve done to become what I am.
Guilt sets in.
People I didn’t say sorry to. Moments I didn’t cherish and people I wasted time on.
Reciting history is not what I want because my memories mean nothing to you.
But we all know the feeling that haunts us as we’re going to sleep and when we’re trying to tell someone new a story of someone old. The feeling that happens when we’re trying to write a letter to someone that deserves handwriting, pen on paper.
We all know what it’s like to be old enough to know what has happened.
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 10:08 AM UTC