Sanity is basically the society's way
Of telling you that you are accepted
And that you most likely are
Like everyone else...

Different levels of insanity
May not always be true
Its just not as widely accepted
As sanity and all that mainstream stuff
But it doesn't mean that you
Truly do fall under that category
Of complete and utter voodoo.

Majority of the times,
It just means you're staying true
To the person you are
That is not defined by the regular border-lines
It just means that you are different
And that's not as bad as they
Make it sound like
It's just different opinions that's all.

One day the world
Will come to understand from your eyes
It always does take time to understand
The geniuses of the world.

What I would give
To wake up next to you
Bodies tangled vines
Legs wrapping around backbone
Skin stained from the previous night's hunger
From eager lips
What I would give
To have you run fingers down my xylophone ribs
Every morning
Play me into routine
Sing each note that leaves my lips
Each breathless hello
Each half whispered stay
Each please don't go
What I would give
To know the exact shape of your palms
Have them folded into memory
Making home in the dimples of my back
In the curve of my spine
Not allowing for goodbye
Reading only welcome
What I would give
To run hands through your hair
Through the saltwater aftermath
Through sand dusted in from the wind
From a day spent in beach sun
What I would give
To bury myself in the vacant parts of you
And never leave
What I would give
To fall asleep next to your mumbling
Next to your 3am curiosity
With your breath against my ear
And toes weaved together like the silk from our bedsheets
What I would give
Is not enough to shrink the space between us
Is not enough to turn distance into nonexistence
But boy,
What I would give
To have you next to me

I would give everything from the arch of my soles
To my abundance of freckles
To be with you

In order to be with you
I would give
All of me.

Today I sat alone.
Today I sat by the trash.
Today I sat in the car with a drunk women.
Today I sat at dinner while being screamed at.
Today I sat in bed and thought about the bad things.
Today I sat in the bath with a razor to my wrist.
Today I watched the blood slowly fall from my open vein.
  Today was the day I knew I wasn't okay.

I stopped writing stories
Before, writing one was such a bliss
I am lazy, so I hardly finish
But I won't even think of bidding it a goodbye kiss

Now, I realized I want to play God no more
Creating characters just to have it experience an emotional gore
What is it for?
For mine and my readers' pleasure?

Because I know how it feels to be a character
Here is my resignation to render
I don't know if I won't write stories ever
But for now, I'll keep my status as a novel reader

College is a cancer clinic.
At this university, you either live long enough to die,
or die until you want to live.
Kids drag backpacks like bags of morphine,
and are attached to their planners like they are their heart monitors.
You do your own chemotherapy,
as you poison yourself with debt,
and Friday night nickel shots.

She said people were seasons,
and when I first met her, I couldn't agree more.  
After getting to know her, I wished that I didn't.
Her ex-lovers were Winter, and her eyes were a shade of Spring.
I could see the vulnerability of a car crash
swimming in each fountain trapped behind her emeralds.
She was beautiful in the way that could cause suicides,
and fix spider-webbed windshields after each collision of,
“Are you okay,” and, “I’m fine; I promise.”

Every story was Winter, and she was always left alone in the snow.
Mauve lips mouthed words that silently whispered,
"When is this too much? When are you going to leave?"

People are patterns,
and all she knew was the tessellation of temporary love and permanent loss.
Her hands trembled as she looked down.
She was in transit; moving after each hope of home fell apart.
And I wanted to kiss her like the world was falling apart.

I wanted to write a poem about flowers, so that's what I did.
It was short, expressed how I feel, and cut like glass.
I showed my father "Flowers" and he thought it was mediocre.
And I said, "No, "Mediocre" is the poem where I talk about dying,
and I'm trying to stay alive, so I wrote about flowers."

Flowers strangling soil plots with their roots, with their existence.
And to hurt something you love with your existence is a terrible feeling.

if you could read my mind

you wouldn't hear anything

my thoughts have been missing

all i have and stupid memories

on a good day you'd catch me thinking about the first time we kissed

on a bad day you'd have to deal with the nightmare of my memories.

broken bottles, broken doors, broken dreams

hole in the wall, hole in my heart

the way she abandoned me, the way i abandoned everyone

and i'm sorry if you see this

i wish you couldn't.