moment wrapped in ribbons of silk
twirling and swirling in circles
amaranthine

driving at night, sky blackened
windows like vacuums
******* in the smoky winter air

wheels grinding, rolling against the lopsided asphalt
crushing rocks with every bounce
driving,
no location
only hands gripping the wheel
and pressure on the acceleration

driving down silky ribbons of rocky asphalt
driving
no location
only hands gripping the wheel
only pressure on the acceleration
only you holding tight
grabbing life by the neck

sitting in a box
only going where someone else takes you
is empty
so grab every moment
wrapped in ribbons of silk
twirling and swirling in circles
amaranthine
savor the bittersweet memory while it lasts

ripped and torn from its place in the neurons
in the brain
stored in the depths of the ocean
the ocean of memories abandoned
lapping against the vacant shore
sky blackened, windows like vacuums,
******* in sand, summoning dust
spiraling piles crowding out a smooth smile

driving through amaranthine moments
widening eyes
moments wrapped in bittersweet anticipation

Your smile
Lightning across every nerve
sizzling through every vein
headed straight to my heart.

My eyes
Darting away quickly
crossing over tiled floors
landing outside the window.

A headache blooms with my blush
and it's suddenly too much.

Shame I couldn't bring myself to smile back.

I cloak my conditions in colloquial
Decode my demeanor, I dare you.
There’s no definition to be found.

I am the same as the others
Too different and you’re strange
And hidden feels happier than strange.

I'd say something if I felt like it
but depression seems to take feeling
and wrinkle it into *****
crumpled and crushed
compacted closer than the papers piling around me
as I delete drafts
dramatically demanding a **** word
to hold meaning it never could.

Sometimes, words are nothing.
Because when they are everything,
I can't bring myself to say anything
so they might as well be nothing.

Every time I try to tell someone,
Anyone,
It comes rushing through my eyes instead
Let me paint you a picture,
A self-portrait from painful pastels
And punishing paints

Living in a lonely world,
In my lonely mind,
It gets tiring.

I wish someone could see past my fronts.
Look at me;
See a real person,
And not the mask I wear

I know I could take it off
I should
I would
I can't

It's my only defense.

Because if they don't like my mask, it's fake.
But if they hate me, it's too real.

And every time I try to tell you,
It comes pouring from my eyes instead.

Let me wear these sarcastic stripes
and austere arches.
My sorrowful scene.  

This picture isn't pretty-
far from perfect.
But it is me.

And so she sat there,
smiling quietly,
watching the sun set fire
to the bright green trees,
feeling the window warm against her head,
as frizzy hair brushed her shoulders.
Music flowed through her earbuds,
the scent of orange bloomed
in the gently chattering bus.
Fridays couldn't be better,
and life was beautiful.
Too bad she'd have to leave it behind.

Screeching stung the lovely afternoon,
spinning, and spinning, and spinning.
A cocktail of chemicals rushing,
flushing out the floating happiness.

Black, and tears, and tragedy.
The most beautiful of souls had to pass before all others.

poetry is hard
everybody wants to read
your most personal thoughts

the only success you'll see
is when you paint your heart across the page
and pour your soul into pressing that simple "save"

my voice seems worthless until I spill my secrets for the world to see
but what if I want to keep secrets to myself
and let the world see what it thinks it wants

let me write soppy stories of summer days
or mornings filled with cliched coffee cups
loaded with the "real" problems every poet apparently has

the real Problem is that everybody has a problem with not having problems
why can't we be happy having perfect lives

instead, I have to pretend I have problems
when all I really have is the standard stress that comes with being young

The closest thing I have to a real problem is the parabola on my worksheet and the other math problems beyond it

I'm no different from any other aspiring author
wanting recognition for lying
and exaggerating
and imagining problems into existence

because no story exists without conflict
and no peace exists with problems
so we have a bit of a perfect problem paradox

She was so lucky.
Friends.
Several of them.
All of them kind and real and amazing.
School.
So kind and real and amazing.
Nobody scans her as she walks the halls.
Nobody judges her every choice.

Nobody notices when she chooses to eat information instead of food.
Nobody realizes she notices the little glances just barely within her sight
     Or the muffled snickers
     Or the sly comments.

Nobody knows how absolutely aware she is.
Nobody hears her trembling breaths in the bathroom
silenced by the palm of her hand.
Nobody could ever know how hard it is to ignore all of it;
                                              how hard it is to not hate yourself;
                                              how hard it is to hide everything
carefully packaged under the confines of her undershirt.

Nobody can tell that inside those bulging rolls is simply a girl with social anxiety and insecurities beyond mental health.
Nobody sees her bury her feelings in her sparse salads and amaranthine assignments.
Nobody sees her.