Sometimes when I’m running
I detach from reality
And suddenly I’m face down in the rocks
And my knees are ******
And I’m throwing up
But there’s no one to save me
No one to pick me back up
Thats what happens when you’re on your own
You have to stitch up the wound
Stitch it closed alone
And there’s sweat on my hairline
And blood on the dirt
But I have to put myself back on my feet
And keep running
Like I didn’t miss a beat

What is it?
The reward for climbing,
For breaking pieces of me off,
For giving everything.

It’s not the kind of love I’ve been through,
Because all it did was knock me lower.
I don’t go for the love I want anymore,
Not because it’s not there,
I don’t think I’m deserving of people like them.

Nor is it golden chains and watches,
I’m through with suits and such.
What good is money,
When I’m looking to make it big and broke?

It can’t be the journey either,
Or rather, those certain things that came,
That changed me.
Maybe it’s the people who made it out of the rungs,
The people with whom we run.

If I could pick a prize for life,
It would be standing in the shallow waters,
Staring at the shore,
After fighting through the deeps.

When I was in sixth grade my crowd of friends was bigger than I could count,
When I moved up to seventh,
I could fill a city with them.
Now that I’m going into tenth,
It seems I have very little left.
Now’s the time to choose who I run with for the next decade,
And stick with it.

she danced slowly,
hand holding the blue-ink pen,
words flowing...
...and flowing
onto the page
with practiced ease.

a loud but quiet plea
to the people who surround.
"help me,
im stuck in a forever loop
of my own thoughts!
they just
won't
stop"

i watched gently.
sitting in a quiet corner
of the book filled library,
watching her.

not in a creepy way,
in a worried way.

i've seen the stuff
she tends to write,
it worries me.

it worries me
to the point i can't
stop
thinking
about
it.

about
her.

sometimes a few words
can make a real
difference
in someones
life.

theres no wrong answer
to what poetry is.

"poetry is rhyming"

wrong.
there is actually a
wrong
answer.

poems are little windows,
a view inside
someones head.

it doesn't have to rhyme,
it doesn't always have to provoke
feelings.

its just words,
that are there
to help
*someone

why do we dream?
why do we miss people?
why this
why that
just...
why.

you stare at me
from across the room,
like im your rival.

im still not sure
if you hate me
or just dislike me.

maybe you're just waiting
for me
to trip
so you can say --

"i told you so"

we could've been friends --
could've been more than.

what did i do
to get put in this position?
do you even hate me?
am i a rival to you?

because im too tired
of pretending
that there's nothing here.
because the silence
is too loud,
it burns my head.

i want to work this out,
where the static
can turn
to rhythm.

when the silence
finally
vanishes
and the burning
stops.