the days pass by silently without giving me much time to turn around and watch them and when i sit inside my room i am once again greeted by that old, familiar chill of winter

teapots full of emotions are being boiled over a stove that is clearly not warm enough to warm my whole body, but it keeps on burning regardless, and i notice that no one thinks much of anything unless it concerns themselves

i get this chill when the nighttime slows down that things are going to end, that everyone is going to vanish like the snow that tries in vain each year to stay forever, but then my thoughts leave as fast as the warmth of spring

winter is that old friend that you love to see but hate to keep you company when he opens his mouth about the things that used to be, about how you used to look out your window and see him fall behind tears, sparkling eyes, and disappointments and trust me, i get enough headaches nowadays to block out those memories but i can't forget dates in december that shaped who i was in january

if there's a piece of advice i would give someone, someone full of loneliness and desolation, full of the contents of despair, enough so that they feel they could burst, that they feel no matter what they do there will always be a dead end, that feel that they don't even want to write the tragedies they think and experience down in a journal because god forbid someone would ever open it, so they just stay bottled up

if there's one piece of advice i would give to them, it would be let your thoughts pour out like the way old winter brings them back; one night, just cry and let it drain you from any more tears; let that old, hideous, beat down, torn, broken, revolting chill freeze your mind, so that you finally get a *break

we've spent approximately three months talking about authors and analyzing works and mentioning things like the author cannot give the audience closure because he doesn't have it himself and all i can think about is how i'm the one who needs comfort in a room full of students but i'm not going to get it

old habits die hard, and now i'm the one with the broken mouth and the burnt tongue, the person whose voice has been taken away because i cannot say things that are pictures anymore and i just wish you would realize how much of a constant struggle it is having to think about your memory at least once

thinking back to when you cared is something that i just can't put into a metaphor; i can't put any of this into a metaphor. if i tried it would go something like the way you made me feel was somewhere between two brick walls that were just continuously closing and i used all my weight to keep them open but i kept growing weaker and you kept growing forceful and the minute the summer days came into full bloom i was completely broken

sometimes i look out my window and i am convinced i need to get away because it will be good for me, but how can i build myself up against a world full of you? you're a drop in the water of *******, and for some reason i can't talk to anyone anymore without feeling like they're apart of your ocean

i'm waiting with all of my heart for thanksgiving -- waiting for the moment when i find out whether or not i can leave, and until them i'm stuck. maybe you remind me of colors and of snow, maybe he reminds me of white cars and hot chocolate, and maybe the other one reminds me of chlorine and equations, but maybe i can escape them all

english teachers will tell you that an author does things on purpose but i disagree. words fall onto the page as effortlessly as water flows through a mountain, and it's just because of this that the beauty of a novel comes about. i've been throwing my own ideas on paper for over a year, and now my own pages are finally soaked with the memories of you that i don't know how to apply the pen to a piece of paper without throwing that paper away. everything begins with a dot but it's time to start writing -- if it's therapy for certain great writes, it can be therapy for me too

i need to stop being afraid.

Ashamed ....

Afraid...

Betrayed ...
That's how I felt..

A love so pure that turned so volatile, a Molotov cocktail...stirred but not shaken.
Waiting to explode in your precious hands.

How does it feel now?
You can only cage an owl for a moment.
They were born to soar alone.

You caused so much pain deep inside
Those scars were nothing worse than the mental clarity you took from me.

You took me away from me
Chasing through the streets trying to find me again...

You won't ever catch her
She won't let you
Not this time...
No
Not this time

Isolated
Alone
Abandoned
Alcoholic

That's what you are...
How do you feel now?

The reign of
My heart

The wrath of my soul; bared clear and cold

The strength of your disinterest.

Your unwillingness to mature for sake of sanity

The lies
The exasperating conclusion
That you are not for me.

You lied.
I hate that ****.

I'm over it.