She went to the police.
Told them she was being abused.
They didn't believe her.
They thought she was another teenage fiend.
She went back.
Told them that she was *****.
They didn't believe her.
They thought she was another lying child.
She came again.
Told them she got beat up.
They didn't believe her.
They said if she comes again they will arrest her.
Her bestfriend came.
Told them that she was killed.
They didn't believe him.
He came back.
Told them that they aren't worth their lives.
They just laughed.
He left.
They got a call.
The person told them.
That they saw two bodies in the river.
The police went to check it out.
The bodies belonged to the girl and the boy.
The girl was killed.
The boy committed suicide.
Just to be with her.
The police were wrong.
They didn't believe their eyes.
They should start believing more.
**** April and it's fools.
The police were the fools in this story.
They started to believe more.
They saved lives of many after that.
But what I'm wondering is.
How come they didn't save those two kids.
That would've had lives to live.
If only they had believed.
In this retched April Fools story.

Darkness,
you always surprises me
of your appearances.
Sometimes you would appear beautiful and nice.
Sometimes you would appear
scary and dreadful.

Darkness, would you find me
Someone who would make me friends with you?
Just by holding his hands
I won't be afraid of you.

today, my English teacher explained that poetry is a way to express
internal feelings
externally

and the sadness I felt in my mind in my heart
could be spilled by accident
sloppily on paper
and still seen as a beautiful work of art

but the happiness you make me feel,
my mind cannot fathom words
to script carefully in ink
what you make me feel

these butterflies can't escape from my stomach and land on paper

the thought of loosing you
cannot rip my skin apart
to claw out of my body
and tear my words to shreds

please
don't turn whatever we have
into something I can write about

last summer
I met a boy of 6 feet tall
he is two years older than me
he listens to punk rock
has an alcoholic father,
and his kisses
are sweeter than honey
and softer than silk

we spent countless, long, dreamy
cold, rainy, humid
nights
in my backyard
with the smell of too much hairspray
which I can not bring myself to smell again
and mosquito spray which I never apply anymore
11pm
4am
the hours passed by like minutes, seconds

under the stars
telling secrets
I was scared
scared of losing him
even though he was already lost

fading
disapearing
slowly and then all at once

hallways
silence
stares
me alone
him and her

11pm
4am
hours seem like eternitys, milleniums
crying
flashbacks
thinking about the us that will never be
blood spills on the paper
spelling out your words, promises
do I even cross his mind
maybe  probably not  no

I'm sorry I wasn't
skinny
pretty
funny
admirable
good
enough

I'm sorry

we didn't even say goodbye

goodbye, Brandan