Written December 23, 2012

I know it sounds so typical, but I'm misunderstood. I mostly don't express myself the best I know I could. My age does play a role in how I'm taken as a joke, how people who don't know me well think I'm of common folk. My mind's a little different. It's eccentric and it's odd, but if I were to be normal I would surely not applaud. I watch the world around me: young and immature. For I'm not made to be nineteen, and that is for sure. I should have been born 200 years ago when people stopped to think, were intelligent and logical, and people made the link between the things in life that bring them down and the direct reason why they frown, and that you're only as happy as you choose.

Written November 29, 2012

In the midnight hours, I hear a scream.
From where, I wonder, comes this scream?
It frightened me.
It startled me.
My mom's asleep,
and it wasn't from me.
From where came this scream?
From where could it be?
I look around, I still hear the sound, but the eerie sound is still unfound.
It turns into a deepened moan, the kind that is almost a groan.
Here I sit, completely alone, horrified, not far from the phone.
I can only hope the very most it's nothing more than just a ghost.
I've become accustomed to them there...
...to come to my house, would you be scared?

Written November 11, 2012

I was lost. I don't mean it in the way that I didn't know where I was, or didn't know where to go (although that too), but lost in the way that I, looking in at myself from the outside, didn't know where I had gone. I was two separate people: my Self who ran away, and my Self who walked the roads trying to find me. A few close friends and one gentle stranger helped me put up "MISSING" posters, but in the end it was evidently entirely up to me to find my Self. So I began to seriously search. The search consumed my entire life. My every day and my every night. I searched not stopping for over six months. One day, I was in the middle of a search when I sat down at the side of the road and began to cry. I cried for my lost Self, and I cried because I was finally starting to accept my lost Self was never coming home. At that moment, I looked up and wiped my tears, and looked across the road. It was someone who looked so remarkably like the Self I lost, but in an inexplicable way, equally entirely different. I walked up to it, confused, and asked it if it knew a Self that looked a lot like it but not exactly. It told me it did, but it regretted to inform me that Self was dead, but it was my new self and it was just born. To this day, I mourn the death of the Self I lost, but like everything else has its time, so do Selfs. I now know that Selfs are not lost and found, but in fact dead and reborn into something similar, but also completely new.

Written October 20, 2012

Tonight I got to thinking. Once, I knew someone who shaped the person I am today; the ever-changing, constantly learning, but already quite changed and learnèd since, person I am today. My shaper ended up being bad news. As soon as I learned this was when I began the change. And it's funny that I have to thank the bad influence of one past person for being the thing that changed me for the better. And although I'm not completely happy, I'm ultimately free. I'm free because I have something my shaper does not: insight into my own psyche. When, in the future, I'm entirely at peace (and this day will come), my shaper will still be caught in the part of life where you're just figuring out who you are. My shaper will always be stuck there, as will everyone else who lives a backward life. Dearest shaper, enjoy the little things in your own life. Being the type of person you are, it's all you'll ever have.

Written October 9, 2012

Sometimes, I want to write. There are thousands of thoughts racing around up inside my head causing, and created by thousands of emotions, and I try to express the words in a creative way, somehow. I try to write a sort of my own style of poetry, and sometimes it comes out sounding alright, and sometimes, my grasp of the English language slips out from between my fingers and abandons me. It's kind of amazing how the mind can work; can't gather thoughts because there are too many, no motivation for creativity when themind is calm.

Suddenly, it was all gone just as fast as it had come. Sometimes the days are long, but still feel like they end before they've begun.
It's a necessity to carry on merrily and that's fine to be as long as I can see the differences inside of me.
I find myself wondering just what the hell is wrong with me.
It's just about time to accept the fact that sometimes we just cannot go back.
The things we once took advantage of become things we have envy for; care, peace and love.
The doubting is dangerous. Danger is famous but not for an eccentric like me.

Written September 6, 2012

Love, I tell you, is not real.
It's a temporary figment of our imagination that seems so real we truly believe it's there.
But what is it really? It is no more than a reaction of chemicals inside our brain that we cannot touch, cannot see, cannot feel with anything but our hearts.
Love is not a thing but a way for our brains to put us in line. To control us. Without it, we would do unspeakable things. But can you hold love in your hand? Is it even really there? And when you feel you love one and will never love another, fret not, as it is not so.
At times it feels like there will be no end to the pain, but there will be. Love is only something we can't control unless we realize we have the power over our own hearts, over our own brains.
Our brains are a smaller part of us. They do not reign us but in fact the opposite.
It is when we tell our hearts that we're in control, we're the boss, can we begin to tell our **** emotions where to go.