But in the end
what unites us is not
the menacing sins of the past
but the braving hope
for the future

And I have loved you
since the beginning of time
And I will love you
until the end of my time
to the end of all time
and **beyond

And her silent screaming went unheard by those she loved most.

Scars are more than marks on our arms. They are the words  to a story,  
exploring the once upon a time secret  that had wrote itself into our lives.

She had the mind of a demon,
the heart of a lover,
the eyes of a sailor,
and the mouth of a poet.

I'm a complainer who shows the world a mask, carved from the most skilled of hands.
I'm not truly me.
I'm a cover up.
A fake.
But that's ok, because I don't  even know me.

Don't worry child
you will be alright
just hold it in
you will soon see the light

My disposable plastic heart has been crushed one too many times.

I saw you.
In a room full of people,
Yet sitting by yourself.
Head to fist,
And black kissed your lips.

I saw you.
With your headphones In,
Drowning out the world around you
Won't you just let us in?

I saw you.
Wearing a veil of black,
with your paper white skin,
and death-ridden cheeks.

I saw you
and your hesitant smile.
With eyes that laid dormant,
From all the revile

I saw you today.
When you thought no one was looking,
and im yelling for you,
Shouting I'm here.

What is poetry?
A form of self expression?
A release to the emotions bearing weight on your soul?
A chance at hope in the most dire of times?

I find myself asking these questions as I stray towards words during my visits to rock bottom. When life has once again wronged me, and these emotions are brewing into an unforgiving storm. There are no expectations here. There is no room for outside judgment. It is just me, a pen, and an empty sheet of paper.

So why is it, that through the thunder of this storm, as the rain pelts me to my core, I find myself met with expectations of my own self expression? Trying to mold these feelings into something presentable, acceptable, beautiful, even.

These emotions know no boundary, they feel no sympathy toward the rules of the world, they only crave release from being locked inside for far too long. They are messy, angry, chaotic, uncomfortable. There is no perfect format to present them in. There is no time to mend them into something pleasing. There is only expression.

Sometimes, you are stuck in the past, thinking what could have been. But the best thing to do is, pick up the pieces, put them back together and move on. Because a finished puzzle is more clear than one left undone.

Everyone saw she was drowning
But offered no hand
In fear they would drown too

There once was a rose, so gallant and proud. With its rosey red color, it brought a new light to the world. Slowly but surely, the rose began to fade. It reached out to the world, offering nothing but shame. Crying for the dreams it once vividly shared, the hopes that fell in red little drops that caused all to stare. What had the rose done, to deserve such a punishment?

And what's the point?
What can I really do about anything?
I'm officially broken
But I have to pretend I'm full.
My cage is my own trechrous mind
and my cries are drowned out In the rambles around me.
I am insignificant.
I am unimportant.
I am nothing.

(S.R)

If I floated away into the stars tonight
Would you notice or even care?
Would you whisper my name with sorrow's soft fare?
Or would you walk away?
And continue your colorful life
Without this shade of gray?


For tomorrow's delight
Can only exist
In the absence of despair.

I don't think you understood what you did to me. Your words consumed me. Abused me. And I broke. Accusation after accusation, name after name.  Until I became physically exhausted--the only proof of the shattered fragments my mind had become. I tried to stay strong, I tried to stay happy, I tried to live on. But alas, even the strongest have a breaking point.

But baby, those were the days..
back when self-expression was not a lesson
And shying was not because of lying

Oh baby, I miss those days
       With you
              With love
                     With hope and vanity

Baby, let's go back, just you and me
        Together
              Forever
                   Oh, I see... It's just not meant to be


Baby, my darling,
        Please
              Please
                    Please

Without you there's just nothing to see,
         To feel
              To love
                   To be

Baby, I need you    
            I love you
                 I JUST WANT TO BE FREE.
                                     Crying

                             Loving

                    Ending
Free.

The chaos of the world has drown me.
My hopes.
My values.
My dreams.
And I can only ponder the thought of what could have been.
What I could of been.
The blanket of night brings back the illustrations of my past.
Who I was.
Why did I hate her so much?

Now I envy to be her.

And in that moment I couldn't breathe
The life was drawn out of me from a pain that wrecked me to the depths of my soul--and then I wept. For those I had lost, for those I had pushed away and for my selfish self. The tears paved delicate paths on my swollen cheeks and I needed the soft touch that only he could provide. But he was long gone to a place of no return. I had lost him, not only him, I had lost myself. I can pretend but I can never be. A floating shell, masking the emptiness inside. And I realized I can never truly be full again. I can just float-- waiting, searching, failing. I can just live this shallow life until the shell cracks and I become dust. Worthless, lifeless  endless dust.

I have a passion to give.  
A passion to inflict love onto others.
A passion to become the best.

However, as the time peels by, the passion churns into an obsession. An obligation.

I must help others.
I must love others.
I must be the best.

The time keeps ticking, and even though I’m barely keeping my head above these flood of emotions, I must be this ideal, “passionate” person.

I’m failing.
I can’t keep up.
What have i become? These self-made obligations are killing me.

I’ve become obsessed with giving so much of myself that i didn’t notice i was drowning.
I don’t have the energy to keep going. But i must.

How do you recover from giving so much of yourself, when you have nothing left to give? To others? To myself?

This life of passion has made me hollow and i just want to feel again. No matter the cost, because i must.

Do you ever find yourself infatiouted with others? Not with their body, but with their minds and their story.

Do you ever wonder how they became their present selves? What shaped their being to it’s current state.

Do you ever find yourself sifting through their thoughts? A desperate attempt to learn more about their desires, hopes and dreams.

Do you ever take a step back, to truly understand the caverns left unexplored in their mind? What broke them? What made them?

In a world that has grown superficial, I’m left in a place of teetering exploration. Traveling through the words spoken and those left within. For I wonder, if I learn to understand those around me, those I care about, maybe that depth will ground us into something meaningful. Something worth fighting for.

I write in permanet ink
because mistakes are real
in the moment
and I don't want to lose that feel,
that reality.

You played me like a fiddle and while I was lost in the enchanting music being slithered into my ear, you undressed me.

Hello old friend,
I've missed you.
And the dark blanket you skillfully wrap around me.
I was a fool to think you were in the past.
When in reality I've always been your *****.
Always will be.
Until you finally call me home.