I have to close this chapter in the book,
it doesnt matter how it will read or how it will look,
because even the worst memories get brighter,
as age gets dimmer like a dying lighter,
right meow it will be looked at as a year for hate,
a year to commiserate,
maybe a year to accept the growth in me,
or a time I was most free,
it was a year for love,
or maybe it was just all of the above,
but that's every year I suppose,
just like every poet rhymes,
and has pros,
every year makes me happy,
and every year makes me feel down in the dumps,
its a just a game,
"Of streaks and slumps"
so here's to the next year
of happiness and fear,
love and anger,
thrashing and quiet,
raises up glass to my friends I have and havnt met yet
Lets all make a bet,
to be have good days and bad,
so that next New Years,
there will be something to be a had

31/12/13

Dear you,
Here's what I never plan of telling you.
I love you and I like you then after a while I end up hating you, I

don't understand how it's possible to feel so much love yet so much

hatred for just one person.

You’re fascinating yet so ridiculous, and oh so heavenly it's as if God

had sent you so I get a taste how heaven feels like and I am never to

sin again. They say it's the imperfections that make a person perfect,

well you must have a sack full of imperfections because you are

beyond flawless.

It pains me to see you hurting over a girl who doesn't feel even lightly

the same way you do towards her; you've been lingering on the

memories for so long that you haven't realised it's already been two

years. She’s just being friendly yet you’re letting her tug your heart

strings like you’re an old guitar in the attic.
I guess I could say the same to myself though.

I like it when you laugh, I like it when you tease me about the silliest

things, I like it when you just say simple things. I like it when you ask

me questions, I like it when I realise you know me so well. I like it

when you play the song you hate on the guitar just because you

know that I love it. I'm just about in love with every little thing there

is about you. Even when you’re not talking to me I realise a simple

“hi” means a lot to me.

Just as I'm completing my daily routine you suddenly appear in my

mind. It’s all so cliche it makes me giggle yet hurl. The girl who

ended up falling for her bestfriend.

You know that I love reading and it’s funny the stories I read they're

all overused and predictable but I still loved reading them because

I'm a sucker for a good old fairytale ending.

The quiet, shy girl has a bestfriend who knew her since childhood

he's the popular attractive guy everyone seems to love. He's had

many girlfriends who in the end broke his heart, throughout all of that

his bestfriend has stuck by his side. In the end the two friends end up

together happily in love and realising what they had was special and

forever.

That’s when I remember life isn't a fairytale nothing’s ever that easy

or predicable in real life; that’s when I also realised we’re so different

honestly I don’t understand how we even talk to each other. It's

strange we hardly have any common interests, other than the fact we

both love music but even our taste is completely different.

It's four am in the morning and here I am writing about only a quarter

of things I'll never tell you, maybe you'll find out one day or maybe

you won't. Lifes unpredictable isn't it?

( n.a )

my purpose of those yearly vigils
was primarily
as an effort for Colton
to hear
through the grapevine
in one form
or another
that he was
not only
not forgotten
but that he was
extremely
well loved
and sincerely missed
and to show Colton
that whether his leaving was unintentional
as in
afraid to come home for missing curfew
and 1 day turned into 2,3,4
and by that time he may have felt
that he had painted himself
into a corner
and I wanted him to
not feel embarrassed
or humiliated
that this had gone on
as far as it had
because, hell, the whole world that knew him
or at least his family
and friends
were willing to have a party
and he was the guest of honor!!!!
No, it's not like
I ever had that fantasy
that in the middle of pizza
the first year
or grilled burgers
that last year
that he would come walking up
and join us
although it was a comforting story
we all let run through out minds
at least once
or twice
as we planned these events
ea September
although
my once upon a time story
usually had Colton
walking in the back door
as i'm doing dishes
(see, it really is a fairy tale)
and in typical Colton fashion
he tries to play it off
tries to play me
with a "Hi, Mom"
and act like nothing had happened
and I am torn between hugging him
and grounding him
But actually
I know I would have done
what I always did
to all of my children
whenever they came back from camp
or being with the other parent
or whenever
I had gone away
from them
for any length of time
was sniff their head
and get that scent of them
just like when they were babies
although teenage head is not the same smell
especially if they haven't washed their hair
it's a mom thang
(Did you kids know this
or was I slick when I did this)
Or had Colton purposely planned
his get away
in an effort to start a new identity
knowing in hindsight
just how horribly stressed he had been
with events occurring to him
at such a young age of 17
and it was bittersweet
to hear the new Shinedown tune
playing at that time
Second Chance
where the singer tells his parents
goodbye
and I wanted him to find out
that the Colton Ross Barrera
that he had tried
to leave behind
was still very much needed to come home
And at one time
it used to scare me
that my son ran away
because he hated me
now i am sad
that my son
hadn't
ran away
and now I know
he didn't leave
and that his life
was
taken
from him
and yearly candle light vigils
(I didn't even know for sure how to pronounce that word until 5 yrs ago)
are not going to bring him back

When you look in the mirror,
What do you see?
You see you,
Correct?
Well I dont.
I see me,
But its uncomfortable.
And then my mom holds up a dress,
And tells me how pretty I would be in it...
When all I crave is blue jeans and a button up.
I dont want to wear a dress,
Or heels,
Or have my hair in perfect order.
I want my hair short,
To where I dont have to mess with it.
I dont want to be "pretty".
It makes me feel weird,
It doesn't feel like me.
I dont want to be a guy,
But I wonder what its like.
I would never use "feminine" as a word to describe me,
But I'm not a man,
And I'm not a "****".
I dont like the me that I see in the mirror.

Take more then you give
Bet more then you have
Spend more then its worth
Write love in the sand

Forget your moms birthday
Don't say things that need to be said
Go to bed anger
Throw old love letters away

Get to drunk to walk
Throw the first punch
Keep your Ex-girlfriends number on your Facebook phone app

Lose touch with your friends
Drink to be numb
Forget there are people that still want you around

Run up stairs in ****** flip flops
Lie to someone about the scars that you've got

Take it for granted
Forget that your loved

Life is about living
Never ever give up

“YOU’RE NOT REAL” I screamed even as my knees buckled and I collapsed fingers gripping at the sides of my head as though I could make it all stop if only I could break through the fragile casing of my skull and force my finger tips deep into the softness of grey matter trapped within.

I cried then in the way that only children seem to be able to, I cried as I have never cried since that day with heart breaking sobs that made my chest ache even days later.
Days that I do not remember.

I know I stayed there for what felt like a life time, my body crumpled against the unforgiving wooden panelled floor shaking with each new sob that tore at my throat until I was sure that I might soon see blood as well as tears staining the fabric of my little blue jeans.

There were hands then, though I never saw them.
Large and rough with years of labour, they smelled of cigarettes and potting soil… saw dust and engine grease.
Those hands came and closed slowly over mine easing away the pressure of my tiny fingers now tipped with blood where my nails had partly broken the skin leaving red streaks through the tangled mess of sun bleached strands.

Strong arms lifted my body that felt too small… too fragile, like a hollow egg shell that has been pitted against a brick.
That was how I felt then just a shell trying to keep the world at bay.

I remember the dull sensation of eyes staring, burning into me as those strong arms cradled my shell the blur of red against the grey shirt that covered the chest that felt more like a mountain… a fortress that could hide me from the world.

There was no other sound to me then but the footsteps of my human fortress carrying my shell of a body out of the room as my pained sobs cut through the air and buried themselves deep in the psyche of every being there.

I knew somewhere in the back of my catatonic mind that I would never see that room again or the other children and their frightened glances that were always cast in my direction whenever I was caught speaking softly to the man that  paced the halls of our Sunday school.

I would never see the haggard face of our tired teacher, the horrible accusing look he always gave me when I insisted on the pacing mans existence before being sent to stand alone in the farthest corner of our class room.

We passed through the narrow doorway where above there hung a sign.
Fat sprawling letters written in a child’s hand so thickly coated in a smattering of different colored glitters… Jesus loves you.

I closed my eyes.

He was a strong man
a tall man
though his back was bent with age

He was a wise man
a kind man
with hair of silver grey

He walked with pride beneath each step
though his boots were caked with mud
his hands were worn with years of work
face brown and lined as a leather glove

He passed a man sitting in the street with his hands upon his knees
at his feet an old fishing hat and a sign that read help me please

Here the man did stop and stare when he might have passed him by
instead he got down on one knee as I looked on in awe

He took the stranger by the hands and looked him dead in the eye
Son, I've been in you shoes... please let me give you hope

Then into his pocket he did reach though not for a handful of change
instead he drew out a hundred dollar bill
wrinkled and lined with age
He pressed it into the strangers hands as tears came to his eyes

The kind man stood without a word
then vanished into the crowed