I want to write beauty, serenity, peace And sometimes I start with that But by the end it’s twisted Pain, sorrow, chaos The flow of it may be beautiful Even though the meaning is anything but.
I can’t tell if music actually helps Sometimes it distracts Other times it presses And ever once in a while It sets me off Tears spilling, heart breaking I blame the music Even though I know Music has nothing to do with it.
I want to scream, cry, run But I can’t Not here in front of my peers Not at home in front of my parents Not alone in front of a mirror. I hate myself and I hate my life But I can’t do a **** thing about them So I sit Still and quiet My hands shaking beneath my desk And my breathing slightly faster than normal And my head aching with a swell of fear And I do my best to fit in To be okay Just like everybody else.
I haven’t written anything Not in awhile at least And for a minute I think it’s because I’ve finally lost myself My creative side at least. But soon I realize It’s simply because I’m happy. The things I write Are twisted and depressing Sometimes too dark To even represent My true self. But they were decent Some even good And it makes me miss Being sad.
I was an idiot Blinded by smiling teeth, A hint of red in pink lips, Flecks of hazel dotting green eyes. smeared mascara tricking me into thinking That maybe you cared.
What is love? Is there really a definition for something so broad. I doubt you can narrow it down. Which is why I say "I don't know" when you ask. Because how do you know if you've been in love if you can't even define it? Maybe I am in love but how would I know? How does anybody know if they've ever truly loved someone?