I’m in need,
of a savior.
Just something,
to pull me tight,
and tell me,
no,
don’t go,
I need you.
But life,
isn’t the movies.
You’re the one,
who told me,
that line.
I kinda sorta,
always thought,
life was ironic,
the way it,
worked out.
How I’d say stop,
and the sign,
well it would,
yell at me,
to go.
Swallow the lump,
turn around,
but no,
no,
not this time,
I gotta,
go,
I’m going to,
run.
I’m sorry,
I’m going home,
to the fields of daffodils,
and dandelions,
that we make wishes on.
Even if,
they may,
or may not,
come true.
That’s,
what’s fun.
Life will never,
be the movies,
but it’s certainly,
a song.

The eyes,
window,
to the soul.
Unfortunately,
yours,
are closed.
I peek,
I pry,
trying to,
catch a glimpse,
of what,
makes you,
glow.
Will you,
push back,
the curtains,
and crack,
the blinds?
Open,
the door,
to the beat,
of your heart.
I long,
to hear,
the sound,
of your,
world.

You walk,
through this world,
of black and white.
With your head down,
shoulders slumped,
and smile,
wiped clean,
off your face.
The trees,
no longer,
green.
What,
do you,
think,
if just,
maybe,
you touched,
a leaf?
Would it,
brighten up,
and scream,
at the dullness,
with color?
Along with,
the song,
no one else,
can sing,
you skip,
in splashes,
of puddles.
If you spin,
do you think,
when you made it round,
and round,
would the world,
spin too?

I’m,
choking,
there’s,
something,
stuck,
in my,
throat.
Most,
likely,
my own,
heart,
hollowed,
is attempting,
an,
escape.
Like a,
sponge,
it soaks,
up all,
damage,
begins to,
crumble.
I breathe,
through,
holes left,
behind,
a past,
rescue,
mission.
A,
lost,
cause.
I just,
want,
to,
breathe,
again.

She’s made of,
stardust,
and dances,
on the surface,
of the,
moon.
She breathes,
the scent,
of roses,
with a hint,
of cigarettes,
and black cherry,
incense.
She intoxicates,
the room,
with her,
presence,
as she twirls,
and spins,
the world,
does too.

I can,
call you,
the sun,
in the way,
it sets,
and turns,
the sky,
into night.
Yet you,
are also,
the sun,
in the way,
it rises,
and brings,
the day,
into light.
My cup of,
sunshine,
and sip,
of stars,
how you taste,
that of rain,
and take away,
all my pain.
My starshine,
just a touch,
of nature’s,
melody,
and a whiff,
of morningdew.

I want to live life in a mess,
with splashes in mud puddles,
and petals scattered down the aisle.
Let myself fall,
like rain after a dry spell.
And don’t you just love the smell,
of a summer storm rolling in?
How everything comes to life,
just simply after getting wet.
I yearn for simplicity,
mosquito bites,
and june bugs stuck in hair.
Fireflies caught in jars,
like holding lightning in your hands.
And maybe that’s the way love is,
or at least how it should be,
shocking,
but a way to find home

Maybe it’s the,
blue skies,
green fields,
or the dirt roads.
It could be,
white clouds,
cool breezes,
or the smell of,
s’mores over a bonfire.
More than likely,
it’s the music,
playing on the radio,
making me fall,
more in love with you.

A bright,
ray of,
sunshine.
Here to,
burn your,
face.
I leave,
your skin,
red,
and shoulders,
scabbed.
Even through,
clouds,
I penetrate,
your clothes.
Temperatures high,
celsius soaring,
you peel,
me off,
weeks later.
But I’m,
right around,
the corner.
A delightful,
ray of,
sunshine,
here to,
burn your,
*******,
face.

She wore sunglasses,
while driving in the rain,
she swore,
she said,
the world is just a little,
too bright today.
It may be,
cloudy outside,
but she can't handle,
the sunshine,
with those hazy eyes,
she promises,
she says,
everything is alright.
Maybe she's crazy,
a little bit not so sane,
she wore sunglasses,
while driving in the rain,
the sun won't,
bother her,
today.

The feeling,
of uneasiness,
down deep,
in the pit,
of my stomach.
Like I ate,
one too many,
raw fish.
I can feel,
them swimming,
their way out,
of unsatisfied,
hunger.

I ordered,
Chinese food,
last night,
cracked a cookie,
the slip of paper,
told me,
I was,
going to,
die,
and that I,
needed to,
live,
my life,
instead,
I swallowed,
the words,
of advice,
we never take,
but probably,
should.

I found myself,
drowning,
unable,
to reach,
the surface.
Not quite,
dead,
yet unable,
to be called,
living.
My lungs fill,
to the brim,
as if I’m the,
sunkissed pitcher,
with sour lemonade,
inside of it.
I can’t breathe,
I’m pursed lipped,
wont accept it,
it is not,
my decision.
My cheeks,
warm yet,
wet.
Salty,
unlike,
my lungs.
It’s not,
fair,
but I’m not,
a child,
anymore.
Throwing,
tantrums,
until you give,
and I get,
my way.

I see,
you seem,
to like it better,
when I,
tell stories.
So here is,
one for,
you.
Once upon,
a time,
you opened,
your eyes.
Early,
bright,
and full,
of dread.
Pulled yourself,
out of an,
unmade,
bed.
Tripped on,
the mess,
you left.
Stumbled down,
broke your,
neck.
Now you’re,
well,
dead.

The surface,
of my heart,
has cracked.
Not quite broken,
not close enough,
to perfection.
An empty vessel,
to be filled to the brim,
with restitution.
This useless,
beating *****,
bleeds heavily,
of glowing liquid.
The evidence,
of my struggle,
it's the light,
in my tunnel vision,
of emotions.
I'm drowning,
while breathing,
free falling,
in an empty sky.

I want to dance with you,
in a field of wildflowers,
the dead of night.
I’m no butterfly,
just a moth,
leading you,
to the light.
We spin,
you twirl,
as powder flies,
off my wings.
The moon,
so bright,
she says,
it’s alright.
You jump,
from cloud,
to moonbeam,
and I follow.
You’re beautiful,
and I’m a moth,
dancing with you,
in moonlight.

I like,
to spread,
myself,
so thin,
that you can,
almost,
see through,
my skin.
I have become,
crumbles,
at the bottom,
of a,
chip bag.
Basically trash,
not even,
worth,
a taste.
Am I really,
such a,
waste,
of space?
You told me,
I’m just a,
to be,
continued,
sitcom,
never to be,
resumed.
Is it,
really,
true?

I want,
to,
draw a,
picture.
With stick,
figures,
and a dog,
on a hill,
with a ball,
and I promise,
I won’t,
eat the,
crayons.
I just,
wish,
I could be,
a toddler.
I want,
to throw,
a tantrum.
Pull my,
hair,
throw,
the paint,
scream,
until I’m,
shaking,
and you’re,
pacing.
I want,
to be,
a toddler.
Play with,
blocks,
and dollies,
be your little,
princess.
I,
Want,
To,
Be,
A,
Toddler.
Pout,
Stomp my feet,
Until I get,
My way.
Pretty please?
I want to be,
a,
Toddler.
Let me,
Scream,
I want,
Crying.
Let,
Me,
NO!


This isn’t,
me.
I’m not,
a,
toddler.
I want,
to paint,
a picture,
with stick figures,
and a dog,
on a hill.
I promise,
I won’t,
make it,
into soup.

There’s a tornado,
in my throat,
and I,
can’t seem,
to get the words,
out of,
the pit,
in my stomach.
I’m choking,
on letters,
that make words,
never heard.

Hey,
I got,
a complication.
It’s kinda,
sorta,
really dumb.
You’d call it,
stupid,
and possibly,
some sort,
of weird,
hallucination.
There’s this guy,
works down at,
the bus station.
He says,
this is nothing,
but a simulation.
And yeah,
I know,
it’s an eyeroll,
kinda situation,
but try to have,
some imagination,
ask more,
questions.
There’s this,
really cool dude,
he’s a bit crude,
not really that,
rude.
He swears,
no truly,
he dares,
that some of us,
aren’t from,
around here.
Yeah sure,
it’s laughable,
you’d say,
improbable,
but not completely,
impossible.
And if you knew,
what I do,
maybe you’d,
tie your shoes,
stop tripping,
on all these,
clues.
There’s this alien,
oops sorry,
his name is,
Allen.
He said it,
all started,
with his operation.
He says,
it happened,
while he was,
on vacation,
in Aruba.
Do you believe it?
They picked,
him up,
at a petrol,
station.
All he can do,
is sit,
and think,
about you.
Splash in puddles,
and skip pebbles,
all the while,
on the hunt,
for rainbows.
He swears,
honestly,
he dares,
it’s all,
true.

Butterflies,
have knives,
and they’re,
cutting up,
my insides.
Just like,
the words,
stuck in,
my throat,
it’s just another,
line I’ve used,
before.
I never promised,
to be perfect,
but my pants,
are singed,
and my shoes,
filled,
to the,
brim.
It’s a bit,
unhinged,
like the corners,
of a page,
in your favorite book,
it’s not broken,
but it can’t,
be fixed.
It’s something,
cheap,
borrowed,
used,
and the wrong shade,
of blue.

I went to,
a world made,
of water.
To your average,
everyday human being,
it would have been,
a natural disaster.
But you didn’t,
even have to,
swim,
with the water,
in the houses,
you just lived.
And your feet,
they never,
got wet.

Won’t you,
tell me?
I just,
would like,
to know,
what is making,
you so sad?
Was it,
your dad,
and the way he,
never seems to,
care?
Was it,
mom again?
And how she,
shakes her head,
in such,
disappointment,
that you can’t,
seem to,
take away?
What’s wrong?
I’m only asking,
to wipe your tears,
and maybe,
hug you tightly,
to make you feel,
less alone,
today.

I kinda sorta,
skipped,
right on,
a land mine,
last night,
and now,
my shoe laces,
aren’t tied,
and my heart,
well,
it’s shattered,
to pieces,
this time.

I saw butterflies,
perch,
on my toes,
last night.
They fluttered down,
from the ceiling,
calling my sole,
their home.
Onyx wings,
somehow sparkle,
in the late,
early hours,
of dawn.
I ponder,
will they,
carry me,
to my end,
this time?
Only wishes,
and the anxiety,
of being lost,
again,
this time.
I dream,
of freedom,
from reality.
It’s mocking my,
illusions,
birthing them into,
hallucinations.
My brain,
broken,
haphazardly,
glueing,
the pieces,
together.
Lost,
I’m drowning,
forgotten,
I should be,
flying.

There is no point,
in rain,
on a winter morning.
It melts,
the beauty,
in the snow,
and makes,
your eyeliner run.
Freezing over,
roads,
causing you to slip,
and break a nail.
But,
it makes,
cheeks redden,
with the cold.
It causes,
fingertips,
to search for yours,
retrieving their warmth.
I like witnessing,
our hot breath,
blending together.
That’s the point,
in rain,
on a cold winter,
morning.

I wish,
things were,
different.
I wish,
things were,
fine.
I wish,
I could be,
happy,
smile all the,
time.
I wish,
small things,
didn't have such,
an impact,
in my,
life.
I wish,
you weren't,
the same,
as all the others,
not very,
bright.
I wish,
the sun wasn't,
yellow,
or the moon so,
white.
I wish,
you'd just,
love me,
then everything,
would be,
alright.
I wish,
I wasn't so,
dense,
I could maybe,
see the,
light.
I wish,
I had a heart,
instead of,
doing things,
simply out of,
spite.
And of course,
I wish,
things didn't have,
to end,
that we,
had more,
time.
So all these silly,
wishes,
I make,
on this star,
would maybe,
become the,
truth.

I hope,
you’re dead,
with little,
tiny maggots,
swimming,
in your,
head.
That’d be too,
easy,
like a fish,
off the hook.
I want you,
to be,
the worm,
wriggling,
for a sense of,
free.
I will,
dig you from,
the dirt,
you call,
home,
squish you,
under my,
converse.

“You don’t,
have to,
worry about,
me.”,
she says.
Mouth ******,
after spitting,
out words,
covered in,
razor blades.
Maybe it’s something,
you can understand,
or maybe,
it’s something,
that makes you want to run,
straight to Neverland,
and dim witted,
Peter Pan.
“You should,
probably,
worry about,
me.”,
she should,
have said.
But words covered,
with cotton,
tend to cut,
much deeper,
than the ones,
not.