The view from the top wasn't as pretty as I had hoped.
I thought this as my wishful eyes took in the industry and machinery.
Glancing at smoke stacks and warehouses and roads that led from labor to profit.

It seems we've lost what matters most.
And It seems that we don't care.
I used to see this town as acres of green.
But time has warped the view into greed and gasoline.

My time here is slipping,
in roughly two years I'll be long gone.
At the rate that were going,
I wont want to come back.

But none of this matters as I walk these crowded halls.
None of this matters as I cheat on tests.
I just live for a tomorrow.
Never for a today.

A tomorrow with one less field,
A tomorrow with one more factory,
A tomorrow with a darker sky,
A tomorrow slightly worse than yesterday.

I cant control much,
But at least I can promise,
that I will be better tomorrow,
than I am today.

This Is how we save the world.

My stomach decides to light itself on fire in your presence as I wait to find comfort in a hug that I needed 10 minutes before.
I think people misunderstand just how introverted I actually am, how the spark of a laugh sends me to a corner in my room and leaves me screaming  for a hand to hold.
You know, a glance from you followed by a gentle touch puts all of my evils to rest. It keeps me safe from myself. You keep me safe from myself.
And it's nights like these, with the thunder and the gloom, that make me wonder if I will ever stop needing your smile to make it through the night.
I could do it before.
So why do I need you now?

Maybe I never knew just how much I needed you.

You can find me waltzing at an ungodly hour under a blood red sky
with tears upon my pain stricken face and terror in my eyes.

You can tell me to stop, tell me how I’m hurting myself,
and still I will pick at the same seams until I find comfort in pain

You can hear me singing “So don’t let me cave in” in a basement at a party,
and know that if I do, it’s not your fault.

You can talk to me and I will listen.
And here. In this moment. In this interaction, I will smile. I will lie.
I will say that everything is fine.

But what makes you stand out is that you never believe me.
You have no idea how much I need that.

I told you to do what you wanted, to make your own choice, and you left me alone.
So I sat by the lake by myself and sang a song about how you let me cave in.

later, when the sun was fully submerged under the lake water, and my sadness had left me, you came back to me in that same spot,
and gave me a memory of a waltz, a kiss, and a reason to smile. I will truly never forget.

On the walk back, with my bare feet pressed against the concrete and my converse swinging by my side, I thought about how you have such a beautiful way of influencing my emotions like the pendulum they are.

It wouldn’t be living  if there wasn’t some sadness.

I spend most of my time staring at blank pages and listening to a snare on 2&4. I carve cuts into the tips of my fingers and bite nails off out of boredom. I also wonder how I should be living, because something feels wrong. Should I be this sad?

And every adult I have ever met talks of High school as the best years of their life, so what am I doing wrong? I have friends, I have time, I have people who care. So why do I pace up and down alone in an abandoned theater and feel grim under Friday night lights?

I wrote songs about change last year. I wrote songs about getting better. And every single ******* one of them still applies today. Now I just write to cope, and I'm trying to write better, but it's hard when I'm so jumbled. It’s hard when I get scared.

And Daniel told me to draft my work and avoid contentedness, and I trust him and I tried. I was never content. My time is flashing before me and I have the guts to wear a frown. I'm in the "good ol' days" right now, so why aren't they so good?

The sun was out.
The grass was green.
there was a sprinkle of rain.
And a sky full of blue.

You wore a calming yellow.
and a smile that showed in your eyes.
and when I wasn't thinking of your freckles,
I was thinking of how nice these little moments are.

Dear God,

I know that we don't talk that much.
or at all.
I also know that I kinda don't believe in you.
sorry...
I just wanted to say that I'm happy where I am.
I know my other writings sorta contradict that statement, but I struggle with negativity, and my poems almost always punctuate pain over pleasure.
It's taken time. I'd be the first to know,
But I'm content with my sadness now.
I'm happy with the little worries I get when she looks upset.
I'm happy with the pessimism that spills from my pen too.
At least it creates.
And I'm not bullshitting you.
And no fingers crossed, because I know how you feel about crosses.
This isn't sarcasm or mockery.
I pinky promise.

I love my friends.

I say that they are toxic.
and they are.
But who says that pain and love cant coincide?
I think that they work quite well together.
And I'm not a *******.
But love wouldn't be love if there wasn't pain,
and this wouldn't be a poem by me if there wasn't any negativity.
So thank you for the spot I'm in
and thank you for the friends I have.
I love them all very much.
I love my friends very much.

Sincerely,
                 Your Desperate Friend

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.

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.

I haven't written in a while.
I think it's because I've been happy.
I guess that once the fear is tamed,
and the insecurities shrink down,
I'ts a lot easier to flash an honest smile.

I owe most of it to you.
But I think I've been slowly getting better.
Negativity used to haunt my mind with no end in sight,
Turning subtleties into monstrosities and leaving me awake at night.
But that was before I started looking up. Before I found you.

Let me ask you my dear,
do you mind if we feel lonely together?

I cant keep my hands from shaking when I write about you.
I get nervous, and I stutter when I speak to you.
I'm always scared that we're drifting miles apart,
and what ***** me up most is knowing that neither of us want the distance.
I think I miss you more clearly when I write about you.
I keep listening to the songs that you gave me too.
you look so cute in your smile.
I know that sounded weird.
I'm sorry.
The truth is I get a very honest tug at the corners of my lips when I see you.
I know that what I'm about to say will sound sad and pathetic,
but I practically live for the hug you give me at the end of the day.
I'm sorry.
You'll probably never read this anyway.
I just really hope that tonight goes well.

All of my friends describe their lives with color,
creating vivid displays of emotion and art,
and if I were to pour my soul into one of these displays,
and brush a canvas with my words,

I guess I would start somewhere with the negative.

A midnight blue finds itself on my brush when an emptiness is present,
and a touch of this hue mixed with a granite gray soon becomes the loneliness, almost always paired with the melancholy.
My brush shifts upwards towards violet and juniper green, and I find myself becoming more content with being alone.

Then I paint the anger,
The crimson red and fire orange penetrate the mellow colors of depression and point fingers at others.
With each brush stroke I torch another bridge, leaving my friends in ashes and my pride untouched.
Black streaks of hatred stain my canvas and my love while I try my best to calm down.
And once the rage dries up and settles, and we get past my mindless mistakes, I move on to the positive side of my art.

Light greens and yellows dance upon the blank white canvas while I Paint Summer nights and pastel skylines.
Shades of sapphire pass by when Laughing with all of my friends and adoring her perfect freckled face.
These colorful drugs course through my thoughts, and leave me with a love for life and a honest smile.

I wear these hues at different times, and drench myself in the life they give,
painting canvases and promises for others, and living in a world of my own colors.
Accenting pain, sorrow, and sadness. Punctuating love, joy, and living .


                                                 My words.
                                                 My canvas.
                                                 My beloved.
                                                 My life.

I'm sick of these ******* enigmas.
Speaking in tongues and whispers and acting like I'm the nothing.
So I sit. And I stare. And walls never felt so comforting.
And if you focus, really concentrate, your vision closes in, and you can almost turn off the laughs. Until someone shatters the focus with an "are you okay?"

"Am I okay?...Of course I'm ******* okay..."

And it's true.
Honestly.
It took time, but once I got past the fact that all of my friends wear masks around me I decided to wear one too.

Turning illness into a weapon never got me far.
Turning illness into art only glorified scars.
Turning illness into stories only got others sad.
I think that illness is the best friend that I have ever had.

Somewhere In the black and freezing ocean of mid winter lies her body,
resting in a permanent slumber and dressed in a gown of soft silk and ivory. Casting hurricanes and arctic rains at the tips of her pale, thin, fingers, making sure that the rage built up from years of pain never ceases to linger.

Years before, she cast herself off of the cliffs of agony and fell into the sea,
and compared to the demons that haunted her in life, in the water she would rather be. She left a note to the burdens she deserted, and it mockingly read, "I leave this hell behind me, with you in my life, I'm better off dead."

You wore a complex pattern on your face,
one that I hadn’t seen for a while,
and I didn’t think I could fix it this time.

You looked at me and said “I’m fine, and it’s not your fault,”and the fake smile was plastered onto your perfect freckled face.

I think it hurts more when you lie,
I think you lie more when you’re hurt.

Speak to me now, my friends,
I'm trading all of my companions for attention,
dwelling in an abandoned theater's spotlight and short lived rides home.

Laugh at me now, my dear,
I swear to God I wont lash back,
I've found immunity to the sadness that pairs itself with being alone.

Yell at me now, my mentor,
though we both know that I'm not the problem,
you've singed your hands in your fire and now you turn to me for answers.

Hate me, my conscience,
I wanted to be an artist or a saint,
I'm finally understanding that I don't have what it takes.

What will we do when we all fall in love with each other.

When the blind infatuation seeps into our delicate skin and poisons the blood coursing through our innocent veins.

When the "mild" jealousy hides the secret hatreds behind the masks of friendship that we all so desperately wear.

When we rip our sanctuary apart from the inside out because it seemed as though it didn't love us back.

When we lose it all for the possibility of a temporary romance.

What will we do when we all fall in love with each other?

My blood runs down the warm steel strings.
My fingers ache.
The noise stops.
My pathetic attempt to cope by writing a song about you has failed.

You gave me a rose today.
It sits in my room wilting patiently.
Slyly pouring salt in the wound.
And what strikes me most is the symmetry.
how it sits dying so beautifully,
how it stands tall through all the pain,
how it's petals crash onto the floor like my knuckles into my wall,
and how it makes me smile so easily.
A nice gesture,
falling somewhere between a torture and a romance.

One wall was painted dark blue,
while the other wore a bright yellow,
and the spot known as the corner was now known as me.

Upon the blue wall I wrote: "I don't want to live alone."
Upon the yellow wall I wrote: "I want to be with you."

But as the corner of the room I knew that though the emotions were juxtaposed, the message was still the same.

I wore my fathers shoes to a funeral today.

It took me sixteen years to get to a point where I could walk in them and truly say that they were a perfect fit.

It took me sixteen years to get to a point where I finally understood the senselessness  of death and the preciousness of life

It took me sixteen years to feel the gravity of death wrapping around my blissful yet ignorant heart, pulling me down to the knowledge of reality.

It took me sixteen years to not just know, but comprehend the fact that my time will pass me.

It took me sixteen years to learn all of these lessons, and now that I have I can start to live a life.

Using the wood from the oak tree we met under, we built our bridge.

Bolting pieces together with trust, carefully, and strengthening over time

Creating a once non existent path leading from one spirit to another

Constructed far above a winding river of disloyalty and acrimony

I would meet you in the middle, its weakest point,

and still the bond we built between us would support our insecurities

I was safe with you on our bridge of companionship

I was fearless with you on our bridge of loyalty

We were indestructible on our bridge of unity

So why did I burn it down

*******.

Two words I scream at the top of my lungs.
Pulling from the deepest pit of anger and hatred.

*******.

Words I know I will regret saying and
Words I will probably hear back.

*******,

The easiest way to torch a bridge.
With anger drenched in gasoline, and a lack of self control as a open flame

*******,

I don't even know why I'm mad.

At a table full of acquaintances I tried to speak up. I told them why they had shifted, in my mind, from friends to acquaintances.
But they didn't hear me... or they didn't listen, But in a way, I felt like they knew.

-you're starting to exist more in my writings than in my reality