Journaling is hard...
Have you ever tried it?
You write each day, about random ****,
Only to find nobody gives a crap.
You fall asleep early and into the trap-
Of procrastination.
This dutiful task is one big opperation,
With the heart monitor beeping,
Time keeps on ticking.
The days smear together,
On the ugly speckled canvas,
Of the 50¢ notebooks,
You store next to your bed...


***** journaling,
I think I'd rather be a poet.

I was right.
Fireworks aren't the same without you.
They remind me of that day,
When I stood at the window crying,
Watching fireworks that you'd have loved to see,
Missing you so much it hurt to breath,
Wishing you would hug me one last time...
You had this thing for fireworks,
I'm not really even sure why,
But you used to joke about them
Being your weapon of choice.
And every time I'd see fireworks,
I was reminded of you.

And
Sometimes
You just need a
Moment, to sit and listen
To the noise of the world around
You as the chaos inside of your head
Finally begins to quiet
And watch
The snow
Fall

It frustrates me to no end that I never seem to have much to say,
Until my voice has gone away,
And been replaced with a painful, raspy disgrace,
Reminiscent of an old smoker's vocals,
Cough and all, I sound like death,
Like a ******* smoker of some crystal ****,
So here I'll express the aggitation I feel,
At being incapable of communicating.

Singing along to the music,
Dancing around in the crick,
Frolicking in the moonlight,
Acting stupid 'cause it's night
And nobody can hear us,
Because the trees wisper "hush,"

Circling the bonfire
Of twigs and sticks,
Fuel to the desire,
To test out some drinks,
Because nobody will hear,
The trees still wisper "hush,"


We'll fall to the ground,
In drunken mounds,
Not stiring till noon,
Even that's too soon,
We hear leaves swaying,
The trees are wispering "hush,"

We drink some more,
And then there are four
Of us still standing,
'Till we start puking,
And the world goes dark,
And the trees wisper "hush,"

My imagination blurs my vision,
Site replaced with thoughts,
Memories taking over my consciousness,
Words screaming inside my skull,
Thoughts pounding against my temple,
The barrage of emotions engulfs me, yet again,
Stealing away my breath,
Reducing me to shallow gasps,
Pricking my eyes to the point of tears,
Throwing me down,
Crippling me,
******* me under the waves,
Drowning me with questions,
Why you?

Remember those days.
in that stuffy math classroom?
Shaking your 'poké-walker',
instead of paying attention?
We'd giggle and joke,
yet we still passed the class...
You told me I could have,
Your Lugias...
I cherished them then.
Remember when I'd braid my hair,
so it would be curly when I got to school,
and you called me Kitty?
Remember when you dubbed me Keichi?
Remember all those days in orchesta,
talking smack about Brady?
Remember all those plans we had,
to go off to college together...?
Remember that one secret,
that you never did tell me?
Remember...
Those Lugias became tethers.
That cheap plastic bracelet,
more precious than gold.
Remember me?

There was this kid once, who went on an adventure-
to Coborns...
(Let's get this straight, right now, this kid wasn't me,)
Following the gray cement pathway she walked,
But the kid had this thing about bugs...
She never did like them much, but she liked them
Even less squished on the sidewalk with guts-
Spewing all over.
So this odd little kid walked purposefully,
But stared at the ground, so as not to trample one
Of those nasty bugs with her relatively clean shoes.
Well, the one time she glanced at the glistening waters
With birds swimming atop, she heard the noise,
Felt the crunch, of a massive cricket.
She didn't have to see it to know what it was,
Every detail of the pancaked thing was etched
Into the bottom of her gorey tennis-shoed foot.
The rest of the way to Coborns, she felt the cricket's body.
It wasn't stuck to her shoe, she was quiet certain,
But the after-image in her mind wouldn't let
The feeling of the cricket out of her thoughts.

On the return trip home, this girl,
(who, just to re-iterate, isn't me), made sure
To stop looking down when she neared the place of
The squashing. And to this day, she still wont
Look down when walking to Coborns.

To all the high school wanna-be's who think their rapping is a  God given gift to the world... Please stop.

It never stops amazing me how much time flies in hindsight,
The future seems so far away, but what's been done is ancient history.
There's just under eight weeks left,
Till the end of my countdown of mystery.
It's so easy to forget how long it's been,
When you're living an endless winter this blistery.
The day is approaching, the new dawn encroaching,
I can't wait to welcome you into my arms...

Yeah, it *****,
But open your ******* eyes!
It's not the end of the ******* world!
Build yourself a bridge and get over it already.

When sitting in the school coffee shop,
And all I hear is a group of immature guys,
Talking about how thirsty their friends are,
Complaining how ugly the ******* on twitter are,
Screaming and yelling and squealing at each other,
It makes me wish I weren't part of this generation.

I've given up on humanity.

There's so many things I want to do right now, but all I seem capable of is pressing back space and erase.
Eraseing the words and time tried phrases, deleting the ideas 'til all there is left is a blank white page.
A page with so much potential, bearing none of the marks of its' purgements, of its' rebirths.
Why is it so difficult to create something I don't want to destroy? Why do I keep starting over...?

Everything I do,
Everything they say,
It all leads back to you...
And your morbid humor,
And your contagious laughter,
And our messed up "family",
And our last days as 8th graders,
And our big summer plans,
And our silly problems,
And our last pictures,
And the forgotten good-byes,
And the 4th of july....
With THE phone call,
And the horrendous news,
And the crying,
And the fireworks...
And the funneral,
And the kleenex box,
And all the crying,
And hugging,
And missing...
All of it...
Because we love you

This human body of mine
Craves the strangest of things at times...
When I'm laying in bed at night, all I can think of
Is how delicious some fresh macaroni would taste,
Or how much I really want a corndog,
Or when I'm sitting in class waiting for lunch,
And I start thinking about fish fillets,
And sandwhiches...With layers and layers of meat and cheese,
Or when I've just finihed eating something,
And a friend mentions what they just ate,
And I begin to want it terribly badly...
Why do I get these cravings at the weirdest of times?
Why can't I stop craving spanish rice,
Or Olive Gardens' breadsticks?
Atleast I got over my extream cravings for fries...
Nope, nevermind.

When they saw that girl,
With her head bowed down,
Nowhere near the clouds,
Did they wonder why,
She walked down those halls,
With her fists shoved in her pockets?
Did they question,
Her silence,
And cold poker-face?
Did they ponder why,
A young girl like her,
Never talked to anyone?
Did they care that she,
Choked back tears,
Because her life wasn't fair?
No.
They didn't wonder,
They didn't quesiton,
They didn't ponder,
Because they,
Just.
Don't.
Care.

Most poets, as far as i've seen,
seem to battle with depression...
why is that? Well, I can't ask that about myself,
because I already know why I'm like this.
To think... It all started in the 5th grade...
That feels like ages ago now.
One of the last days of the year,
Everyone was watching Robots,
or enjoying free reign of the playground.
I was one of the movie-goers,
Happily munching away at a little bag popcorn
Durring "intermission" aka, a bathroom break,
A teacher asked me if I could help her out with something.
Little kids are so **** nieve...
I followed her into the library like a little puppy.
In the library was a group of my friends.
(for the sake of annonamysy, I won't name them)
I was told to sit at the little round table next to the teacher,
not suspecting a thing.
She started off by asking us if we had ever heard
"sticks and bricks may break my bones,
but words, they cannot hurt me,"
Most of us hadn't at that time.
I was still smiling then.
She explained that the saying is not true,
and that words do hurt.
The reason I was brought there
Was that I'd said I felt smart,
After gettting an A on an assignment.
Apparently my 'friends' were offened by that.
The teacher told me to think about others
before saying "something like that" again.
My eyes started watering.
My lip was set to a quiver.
I returned to the movie room,
intermission was long since over,
The movie was started without me.
I moved my little chair,
to the back of the room.
Lights off, curtains closed...
I learned to be glad for the darkness.
It hid my tears.
The laughter of the children
covered the sounds of my sobs.
That was when I taught myself
how to cry quietly.

Have you ever noticed the difference,
That a single word can make?
How I'm fine, and I'm alright,
Just don't mean the same?
And how some words are coded,
Embeded with hidden meanings,
Used amongst close friends,
When blunt speech wont do.
How Alien can be one person,
Avenue another,
The Drug meant a sweater,
And Turtle Soup meant ****...
How growing up, life was filled,
With stupid little words,
That you could say innocently,
While meaning so many other things...
Back when school wasn't a worry,
And college wasn't looming over us.
When our weeknights consisted,
Of around-the-house,
Ghost-in-the-graveyard,
And cops & robbers.
Words were so much more than words.
Words were powerful,
Words were strength.
Words held secrets,
A single word could mean anything.

Sometimes I get the feeling I'm not wanted,
That people would be happier if I wasn't in their pressence,
That I should go away and sulk somewhere less public,
Hide my shame and become a wall-flower,
Dissappear into the background of a world
That couldn't care less if I die tonight,
But I don't want to.
I want to be wanted.
I want to be noticed, and present.
I don't care if I make you un-comfortable,
I have just as much right to be here as you do.
I won't sulk alone anymore, I've found true friends
That will be my strength in my moments of weakness.
I found that in this world of drab, dull greys,
I'm sick of blending in,
It's about time I let my true colors shine through

I never asked for the crown,
Yet he insisted I wear it,
Despite my protests,
He swore to protect me,
And put on armor,
To fend off evil foes,
But all I ever asked for,
Was his love,
I don't need him to protect me,
I've got my own armor,
I wear it proudly in my eyes,
They glint with it's metalic sheen,
I'm not as weak as I seem,
I am just seeking the one I love
I'm seeking for my King

When all you can do is listen to Mad World on repeat for hours,
And the words hit you hard,
The meaning sinking in,
Just listening to the tune,
And drowning in the lyrics,
Dying in the rhythms,
Understanding that it's all true.

Lask week I cleaned my room for the first time in ages,
And wouldn't you know, I found something interesting...
I found a story I had started as a kid, tucked away in a folder-
Burried amidst a graveyard of clothes in my closet.
I stopped my cleaning and turned off the radio,
And read the words written in a childish scrawl.
It was something about dragons and magic
And adventures. It wasn't half bad, for a child's story.
But, as I neared the end of the last page I found, to my horror,
That the story from my past ended...

Mid-sentence.

They are young,
But they've forgotten,
We grow old,
We are the forgotten.

He calls it his prison,
He's held hostage there a lot,
But recently I've begun to wonder,
If it's truely a prison or not.
When he goes in he's silent,
He's closed off from the world,
But I try to find a way in, a weak spot,
A ***** in the armor, and I fail...
I'm begining to think that it's not
A prison for him so much as a prison for the world...
A way to lock away everything that causes him pain,
A way to run from the darkness of this world,
To hide away in the safety of the silence
Only found in the recesses of ones own mind...
So tell me, is it a prison for him?
Or is it a prison for the rest of us?

One person in a room of desks,
Eerie silence broken by the sounds
Of computers buzzing and keys clicking,
Distant phones ringing in back rooms...
The musky smell of old books mingling
With the smell of matted carpet several decades old...
All the empty space of an unoccupied library,
It just screams to be filled with hushed voices,
My typing resounds like Goliath's footsteps,
I feel the librarian's searing gaze on my back,
Forcing me to type quietly, in this quiet room,
With its absence of people and lack of noises.