I don't wanna be pretty

"When your pretty, everyone loves you." That's what everyone told me. Now I am pretty. Now I am a flirt, heart breaker, thot, ***, and heartless. I have been called all those things. Some are true. I have learned that pretty is terrible. I can be an awful person but people will still love me. I can lie, and people will love me. Being pretty is bad. All everyone wants to do is have *** with me. They don't care that there is more to me than what they see. Inside, I am a kind person. I love singing and dancing. I love theatre and musicals. I am good at playing piano and ukulele. I love drawing and music. I love sports and I am really good at them. I am a sensitive and compassionate person. My question is why don't they want to see that side of me? I assure you that you would love to. But you refuse and tell me " Its a good thing your pretty." Yeah, I know I am, but I want to to compliment on how kind I am. But you don't see it or you ignore it. I am not a statue or picture. I am not there for your viewing pleasure. I am not there for your intimate desires. I am there to be kind and loving. I am there because I think you are different than the other guys. But most of you are all the same. I have made bad choices because I had feelings for you. I can't take them back. If I could, I totally would. Being pretty has ruined my reputation, relationships, and my decisions. I don't wanna do that life style anymore. I am going to try to stop being pretty. No more makeup, no more selfies, and no more boyfriends. I don't care if you hate me or "love" me. Either way, I am not being pretty anymore. Hopefully, you will eventually love me cause of my personality. I will see you when I am 16. Bye now.

All we do is nothing,







but love
and runaway.

and there you are
walking into another lost dream
your whispers and gentle smile
touching the memories  
I hold dear

like the dream
our time was brief
you turn and walk away as you did
40 years ago
you wanted more from me
another day
another week
and perhaps I would have realized
that I truly loved you
but we know how cruel time can be
and I let you go

I awaken to your image
fading quickly
and I decide to find you
maybe to ask forgiveness
maybe to beg

but I am too late
and you have left me
only to be found
in my dreams
in my sorrow

It's weird. You go on living. The world around you moves. It's like every day. Every breath. Maybe that's what it is, what you breath. There is this feeling. It's almost like a flutter. Like the wold just tells you- "stop. Look at what I made for  y o u  I did this. Now do what you will with what I made". And you do. You take this, this feeling the world around you gave, and make art. The feeling, the
r u s h, it's indescribable. Yet here I am, trying to describe it. This art you make, this feeling that courses throughout your veins, it feels so real and yet it is so much more than this world. So much more that the sky above your mind, more than the ground beneath your feet, more than the blood running through you. How can something,this feeling,  be so much more than everything yet be nothing? Art. It is so beautifully composed, isn't it?

yes,
you can kiss
my rose petal eyelids
my stained cheeks
my humming neck
my willing waist
my burning skin
anywhere on
my restless body
but kiss my lips,
and I'll spend the
rest of my life
aching
grieving
searching for
your stinging tongue

  fate assured me
   we'd burn violently
    but ultimately suns die
     every flame grows tired
      every bulb will break
      every wick will drown  
     charred and regretful
    weary and worn out
   drained of energy
  choking for air
i'm not ready
to ignite
just yet