Everyone has a dream job.
As do I,
But mine is common,
And yet not.
Literature.
Novels.
Poems.
Writing; the scratch of
Pencil or pen on
Porcelain-white paper.
It calls to me,
My heart.
"Novelist, poet
Her works are
Great," is what
I want people to say, in
My name.
Not some silly
Amateur.
A professional.
Like Edgar Allen Poe or
Shakespeare.
Roses are Red,
Violets are Blue.
Oh, writing's in
My blood.
Not music or
Construction.
My hand curves
Around a writing
Utensil like
A lover's hand
Caressing their
Sweetheart's
*****.
I could write
Forever and ever,
Like an eternal heartbeat,
But every heart's
Gotta end,
As does every song,
And so does this
Poem. Until then,
Does the beat stop.

A creature so vile,
It's venomous clutches
Come when no one
Expects.
The tendrils claw
And claw,
Dragging down
Your precious soul.
The darkness rushes
In, the
Air pressure increases.
My chest, your chest,
It feels like it's collapsing.
The heart fails
To beat, to
Pump the blood.
The voices whisper
In my, your, our
Ears. Escape. Escape.
Sleep and never wake.
What is real and what is not?
Darkness.
It's a veil.
So, this is what it's like
To die.
A void of whispers,
Begging for you to help them,
The darkness...
No feelings.
Who... No, what
Am...Are we?

I am a girl.
I like boys
And that’s okay.
But I also like girls,
That isn’t okay.
Love is only
Love when it’s
Opposite genders.
That isn’t fair.
I love her.
That’s wrong.
Why?
“The Bible says so,”
“It just is,”
“You can’t reproduce.”
I’m not a Christian.
You’re wrong.
What about adoption?
“You don’t really
Love her.”
My heart knows,
Not you.
Gender, race, religion,
Age, height, weight,
Distance, looks…

Why does it matter?
It shouldn’t.
Only personality should;
The character.
You love who you love,
I love who I love.
My love life
Shouldn’t involve
You.
Stay.
Out.
Love is love.
I make my
Own choices.

You’ve gone quiet.
Stay that way
When it involves
Me.
Me and my life.

If you were a Hero, and I was the Villain, you would win and I would lose.
If you were a Hero and I was the Villain, you would you get the fame and I would get the fault.
If you were a Hero and I was the Villain, you would get a city named after you and I would get bed-time stories created after me.
The Hero is the good guy, the Villain the bad.
But all I ever did was follow my beliefs.
All you ever did was crush them.
Who is really the Hero?
Not you.

People assume things. They tend to do so every day, no matter the situation. Why? Who knows. What? All kinds of things. For example, they assume that the happiness I show them is real, when it is only a faqade. My happiness is the mask I use to hide my bitterness, my hate, my depression, my anxiety, my lonliness, my helplessness, and the broken pieces that I truly am. I mask many more things than this. My sanity is the mask I use to cover the fact that I truly am not in the right mind. I might not be insane, but I am certainly mentally unstable. My wholesomeness is the mask I use to hide the fact that I am beyond repair. I am broken in heart, mind, and spirit. My body may be intact, but the soul it masks is broken. It is broken in a million pieces and these pieces are slowly turning to dust - beyond repair. My smile is the mask that hides my tears. The tears that fall when no one is looking. My laugh is the mask that hides the screams of pain that constantly **** me from sleep. The screams echo in my ears and they never vanish until sleep takes over again. The make-up on my face is the mask that covers the tear tracks. My empty, emotionless eyes are the mask that keep my inner despair hidden. The hat, or hood of my hoodie are the masks that hide my scarred scalp. The scars there are from countless hairs being pulled out by my bare hands when I have a breakdown. My pants are the mask that cover my scarred thighs. The scars are from countless nights of countlessly and raggedly drawing razorblades across my sensitive skin. I am completely and utterly masked, hiding everything true about myself like a coward. I even take it so far as to hide my cowardice with a mask called strength. It is better to be masked than left out in the open with nothing to shield yourself, wouldn't you think?

Introduction:

        Since the beginning of the AIDS epidemic, 60 million people have been infected and 25 million have died. The AIDS epidemic began in 1981. In this woven poem collection are four poems. This collection surrounds the poem Please Don't Cry by Joe Green. The surrounding poems are Stage 5  by Michaela Oh, The Death Of Thee's Lover by Ike Thomas, and Death Of A Lover by Velia Espinoza. The theme of this collection is a girl who lost her lover due to AIDS. Her lover was born with the infection and lost his battle at seventeen years old.

The Poem Collection:

In darkness creeps my misery,
I often wonder where he's now.
I look at the vain, think of happiness
It just doesn't work...
I can't express my misery,
For he is gone and never back to fill my heart with joy and love.

My heart is pounding...
My tears are pouring...
Although, he once said to me,

"Please don't cry, I'm not really gone.
When you look out the window
I'll be standing on the lawn.

Please don't cry, I'll see you again.
Don't be sad, keep up your chin.

Please don't cry, I'm not really dead.
When you cry yourself to sleep,
I'll be by your bed.

Please don't cry, just because we had to part.
As long as you remember me,
I'll live in your heart.

Please don't cry, I'm not gone forever.
I'll be a cool breeze in hot summer weather.

Please don't cry, don't run and hide.
When you need a shoulder to lean on,
I'll be by your side.

Please don't cry, when you're sad and weak
I'll be there
To kiss you on the cheek.

Please don't cry, this is just a goodbye.
So please, oh please.
Baby, do not cry."

You're in my dreams, my mind.
I know you're right next to me, right here, right now.

Although my heart may sting and ache
You are always by my side.

However, I need you like an ocean needs it's tide.
I always thought we would live this life together, hand in hand.

Darling, I love only you.
We were the perfect two.

Those clear liquid drops of fluid that roll down your cheek when you cry. Crying defies the scientific explanation. Tears are only supposed to lubricate the eyes. When tear glands overproduce tears at the behest of emotion...I think it's our way of releasing those emotions; sadness, grief, desperation, anger, shock, happiness, etc. Emotions are weird things. As humans, we have hearts and brains. But emotion also defies scientific explanation. Hearts are only supposed to pump blood, not feel emotion. I guess, in a way, humans defy scientific explanation. We cry, we have feelings. But it's beautiful. Tears fill our eyes until they're blurry and we can hardly see. Tears roll down our cheeks, the sides of our noses, into our slightly open lips, down our chins, and even along our necks. When eyes are full of tears and they glint in the light, it's almost inhumanly beautiful. But tears can also be ugly things. When you cry, tears clog your throat, your nose. You have to breathe in gasping breaths and you can't see because your eyes are too blurry. All you feel is the damp marks your tears left. When you look in a mirror, your eyes are blotchy and your nose is bright red. Your eyeballs are glassy and water marks your skin. After a good long cry, you grow tired and fall asleep. When you wake, your face feels like it has been scrubbed raw, but really it's just the tear tracks. It isn't the tears that are ugly, but the crying. Humans are complex beings. Everything about them is also complex. Sometimes, those complex things are beautiful. Like...Teardrops.