She was tired.
That was why she went to the ****** beach.
She was tired and so was the beach and so her and the beach fit together
my english teacher needs to learn that over description doesn't make good writing.
my english teacher looks like michael jackson
white michael jackson
and don't you dare say i'm racist
because i am sick of being the only kid here who grew up in a place where everyone was black but me, and now i suddenly am racist because i'm not scared, and i don't try and pretend i'm colour blind
and now you're going to say that reverse racism doesn't exist
what the hell is reverse racism?
how can you reverse it?
people judge you on who they think you are
whether you wear the pink top or have black skin or cried during a speech in class
when you're swimming it doesn't matter what colour your face is, because the whole world is blue
and if its not blue then you're swimming in the wrong type of pool,
and you should go to the ocean.
the ocean.
which is also free,
and comes with exotic wildlife

What you need to know about me is that i always mess it up.
I seem to be a hurricane, but really i am just the silence before the winds come.
half the time storms excite me, make me feel alive, make me dance, but the rest of the time i am too scared and i can't breathe and the world is too small and too big and everything is going to burn.
People tell me to sit still and breathe slowly and keep my veins beneath my skin, but i can't.
i apologise all the time because i am always doing something wrong. it is an apology in advance, so i can get it out before the words tie my throat shut with ink.
Other people can draw cute elephants and be happy and write songs, but all i can do is write about dead people.
these words are not good.
   they are not elegant.
my handwriting is messy and i can only write when other people don't want me to,
that's another apology.
Sometimes i want to call you but all the voice mails would be me begging you to help me breathe before the air disappears.
the tv is broken by static and no one can hear the queen's annual message.
here, the Queen is a spider web of dark and polish and hooks and curtains and blurry drawings and forgotten chimneys.

You find her in the sky and in the dirt.
it is only now, when you have had to admit she is gone, that you figure out she had no idea if she was a person or a pretend
You see her in the fences lining the basketball courts in the city centre, find her smile on the top of a rooftop, smell her hair in smoky public bathrooms.
You are afraid of beaches now
the sand reminds you of her fingers, and although you at least can understand what reality is , it seems as though the ocean is covering her bones
hearts do break
But there is no desolate staring at ceilings, no punching of walls. Because you have already seen all that can be seen on your ceiling, and the walls will not let you touch them.
like some pacifist force field, all of the bony rage dissolves until you can never even touch the walls.
Windows are broken, and they smash so much easier.
Glass cuts and you pay damage repairs, but you never touch the walls, and no one ever touches you.
being attached to a dead person is like turning into a ghost.
They are dead, but everyone else has turned you into the living dead.
Invisible=lonely=dead
x=2y=3z
there is nothing sentimental about algebraic equations, and there is no beauty in cellular respiration.
you learn things that they will never teach you, in darkened movie theatres, and behind reference shelves in the library.
and at night you stare at bridges, hoping you will catch a glimpse of her heart.
If she was alive, she would be a bridge.
And you would be a light switch.

Look at this terrible and beautiful
monster we've made
and look at the name we've given it.
Look daddy, at all the blood
daddy can you see it
See the blood
and all the broken flowers
Daddy can we keep it?
Can it be our pet?

Please daddy, it will stay in my room
and you won't even know its there
and if you want to you can name it
It really is quite friendly
Look it lets me stroke it

Daddy please i know you have one too
you can't hide it from me
I've seen it
and sometimes i steal it, and
it sleeps in my room
and now i just want one of my one

daddy please don't hurt it
no daddy please
all I want is to keep it
i feed it and it only bites me a little
I will just hide it under my bed if you say no
its mine now

Look
I kept it all this time.

Today I drank out of a dead man's coffee cup
i suppose its a bit morbid
and really quite sad
but i am glad he had a cup, even if no one
went to his funeral and i am
glad that he drank coffee even though he was in hospital
I hope he wouldn't have minded that i drank
tea instead of coffee
and I hope he wouldn't mind it was herbal
i didn't really know him
and once he gave me a daisy he found on the road
he had a nice smile.
wrinkles as deep as the thoughts that made them
and eyes that seemed to turn into mouths
when you looked for too long.
and not all he said was kind.

why do you insist on calling
this a rose when we all know
its really a thorn
and why do you stay in this room
when all you want is a tree
Sometimes, its nice to know
that crying in the dark is the same
as crying in the day
but sometimes i feel like we should crawl on
our knees
and beg for forgiveness
not from 'the big man up in the sky'
but from a garden that we've forgotten about
i mean, which one really
has more power?