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?

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.

If Earth is like a pebble,
then isn't skipping rocks,
just like destroying planets?
And if it is,
then are we all monsters?
What if the little rock-people,
see what's coming,
and decide to attack us?
What if all these years,
we've been drowning aliens,
just to pass time?
Time spent waiting,
to meet an alien.

A queen would be nothing if not
for her most loyal knight

Yesterday
I drove
Over
The bridge.

I didn't realize that burying my head in textbooks
Drowning my thoughts in statistical calculations
Masking my emotions with a blank look of contemplation
Was my way of coping

We all have our quirks,
Our own little weirdnesses,
But it still shocks me when
My Demon of Ice has warmer
Hands than me.

I finally
figured
out who
is worth
the pain

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.

I was never one to count the stars,
I knew that I never could, so why try?
I didn't like to dream all day long,
Just to lay awake at night wanting and wishing.
I used to try so hard to focus on now,
But then I realized I'd rather look ahead,
Plan ahead, waste my time counting stars,
And whispering with you under the midnight sky,
Instead of being a boring old stick in the mud,
We'll paint ourselves a future with words and gestures.
Together we can create our masterpiece,
And we'll call it Our Future.

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.

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

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

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...?

So, I went to the office and talked to the lady
Behind the desk that's not quite large enough for her.
She told me she'd change my schedule, of course! But-
I would need to substitue the dropped courses with different ones.
So I hmm-ed and I Uhmm-ed and ended up chosing
To help out the librarian and to take a design class.
(The latter was chosen only because I know someone in it,)
I left the office of awkwardness and now here I am,
Writing and waiting, and hoping for graduation
To hurry up and get here.

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.

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.

Why do I ask the stupid questions?
Why do I care about the stupid things?
Why do I hurt so easily?
Why do I cry for the dumbest of reasons?
Why do I fear the inevitable?
Why do I worry about the unchangeable?
Why do I stress over things yet to happen?
Why do I act so stupidly?

The one thing I hate about
Minnesota almost as much as the snow?
All the ******* sunshine

Sometimes words have way different meanings
When they aren't said out loud...
I just wish I knew how they were meant
to be heard

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.

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?