I don't know.

Its not like I want to be.
When I sit in abandoned theaters full of friends it seems to come so easily.
These after school social sessions aren't helping. They are distressing.
And this group of memories is nothing more than a time bomb to me.
Two years from now i'll at least have a reason to feel lonely.

It's been a while.
It's my fault we haven't talked.
I got new CD's.
I got new friends.
I'm not too sure if any of them helped.
But I got happier too.
I still wear black, but it's paired with a smile.
I hope you found happiness too...
I still have downs.
I still miss you.
I have a **** ton to tell you.
Did you know I play guitar now?
Did you know I have a tattoo?
I don't know when I will see you again.
If I do, I don't know if I will say hello.
But know that I miss you.
know that you're not forgotten.

If you’re the one that’s so concerned about the world ending
Why are you trying so hard to bring it to it’s knees?

Misled by my own malignant
bones I could not control my emotions turned the tide into bloodmoons followed the path of shadows roaming the road to nowhere then after seventy second chances I look at you thinking I've finaly found myself in living purgatory

I don’t like the beach. And I don’t like sand in my sheets or salt in my water.
I don’t like crowded places full of half naked strangers or burnt skin peeling off of my neck. I’ve felt this way for quite some time, but my grandma begged to differ.

She had sea shells decorating hallways, and she had paintings in every room. Next to pictures of me and my cousins and in frames on guest bed night stands. She had closets jam packed with beach towels and drawers of polka dot swim suits. And she had a smile on her face when me and my cousins would reach the shore and finally get the guts to jump in.
I don’t like the beach, and If you knew, that would make you sad, but I swear to god that this time I enjoyed the beach in a different way.
                        

                        


The sun was just rising, and the wind was cool and calm, and the only people beside me were the ones I truly loved. We got to the shore in silence and mom wrote "Lynda" in the sand. Then She took out the box that was painted lightly with seagulls and blue waves. And from the box she put her ashes across her sand-written name, and we watched in silence and acceptance as the waves took her away.

Is poetry not enough? Do my songs still not help? The ghosts that I've conjured scream no. Writing always made me miss you more clearly; but it never made me stop missing you.

And I think I’ve managed to **** up every good thing that has happened to me. My vocabulary is becoming strictly “I’m sorry” And I am. But I’m sorry doesn’t fix everything. And sorry didn’t fix us.

I always say that I write to confront my fears, but I’m starting to think that I’m just writing to myself. And poem after poem I only become more aware that the almost inevitable self destruction is my biggest risk.

I’ll pound knuckles into walls, I’ll etch pencil into paper, and I’ll stay in the same spot for what feels like forever. I’ll conjure more ghosts. I’ll scream “I’m sorry” and in the end I will be the only one to blame.

But In the end I’ll still blame you.