That I should hold tight
to these rampant thoughts
and frivolous and disconcerting
emotions.
That I should strangle them out,
extinguish their life completely,
leave them withered and drawn up,
tucked away in some far corner
of my mind.
That I should provide a steadfast
and assuring bedrock from which
to build a long and happy life
and to lay upon the dusty
traps of years past.
That I should be the place
you can lay to rest your head
and your fears and loneliness.
That I would put them to bed
with my own of which we seldom speak,
and kiss the harshness
from your lips each night.
That I should protect you in spirit
and in arms and in mind
such that you may blossom wild and free.
That I should cherish you in your
pure, unyielding and driven spirit.
That I should love you,
wholly, without reservations,
without conditions,
for everything you are.

you are paper,
let yourself be crumpled,
and then tell me stories
about your creases, your scars;
memories living in jars

tell me how it hurt
to be molded impetuously
because you still feel pain
when your wrinkles look like veins,
fragile streaks of vulnerability
flowing within you,
all over you,
and i will tell you
that i could not care less
if you are a mess of crooked roads;
if you are no longer like the others
devoid of folds
because these folds define you,
and the others do not crumple
in the same way as you do

you are paper,
skinned from nature
let yourself be written,
and then tell me stories
about yourself, your tales
without ever having to use a pen

I'm never really good with words
No, I'm not talking about my vocabulary strength,      
nor my ability to string words into a clean knot of similes and oxymorons at a perfect length
where I appease the regulations of grammar,
and please the cynical brains of strangers,
I am talking about the sound trapped beneath the fat folds of my brain,
the trains of thinking, never-blinking, that keep my outcasted thoughts sane,
I am talking about the voice of a teen filled with angst and unfulfillment
hellfire livid, mistaken as tepid, burning inside the sanctuary's core that is my heart lacking of discernment

I'm never really good with words
No, I'm not talking about my skills at spelling,
nor my knowledge of historical people invested in writing
although I could say I, myself, would become history
just because I write in my own disposition and misery,
but what good would that be?
That my pen speaks louder than my voice,
and that a stick of ink triumphs over the blistering fire raging in my ventricles
Are you not entertained?
Seeing me crumble like lava rocks beneath your toes
and soon, I will be one with the ash that aimlessly goes around
and around and around you and the others that detest my will to speak
because apparently I’m a silent know-it-all, too fragile and meek
to survive in an obstacle course that is my existence  
Enlighten me,
you people who hold the needles and threads
How dare you ask for my preference of color
if my liberty to speak is dead?

I'm never really good with words,
so maybe it would be better not to say them at all

Silenced, still
and enjoying
the time awhile

cooking in me
within
silenced I am
watch me, watch me go...

drowning in scenes, things
drowning in lacks
drowning in myself
To find with time
A little piece
of me...

I'm still here.
Patiently waiting.
Tapping my foot.

I'm still here.
Where you left me.
Worrying.

I'm still here.
Wiping my tears.
You aren't coming back.

I think I'll go now.
Turn off into the snow.
Let it over take me.

I'm gone now.
The tree is bare.
The wind has stopped.

I'm long gone now.
The tree has budding leafs.
And I'm gone.

**Gone into the wind.