I was told that these people were what was painted
There's hope in this blood and fine lines
And there's pain in the hope that's draped
Over the woodlands,
This future will never be what you wanted.
Over the skyline,
This life is bought and pay for,
And you sold the hours in between.
Sometimes they move too fast to understand.
This is all so slow compared to what I knew...
My eyes are rested,
And I can see they take this all for granted.

My sadness for you has been swept under the rug, for you are not the person I fell in love with last summer.
You are a new you
A new, *******, version of yourself.
So, I will not sulk. The you I knew is no longer there.
Maybe we will meet as strangers once again.

We are raised with the idea that we are wasting time. That everything we do will count towards something much greater than one could ever imagine. But when you are focusing so much on the idea of creating time worth living, you are not living. A vicious cycle of trying to make your time count when the time you should be counting is the time wasted. Live simply and love hard. Throw yourself into the new, sink your teeth into something sweet. Feel the rush of being alive in the moment. Don't count the days, let them happen and make do with the time allotted.

1.) Start with the base of your ribs
feel the panic spread, eating away at all that you have built
tumbling over the rocky shores of your throat
feel the magma of self-hatred spread to your neck- fluid, disproportionate.
Feel it wash over the ground that you walk on, feel yourself
bite your lip
sharp pain
it's what you need to distract from the skeletons dancing in your closet.

2.) Watch him, and ignore the fact that he has never seen you as more than a transparent windowpane
Never noticed the landscapes within the confines of your rounded frame.
See his gaze follow her, and tell yourself
that your hopeful shadow will never be traced by his sparkling eyes
that he will never look to bask within your uncertain figure
will never see the soft glint of passion that fervently glows at the core of your spine.

3.) Dig your nails into your flesh and swallow back the tears. You didn't earn them.
Feel your skin grow red and angry
Feel yourself grow red and angry
Know that you are nothing, are nothing. Deserve to feel nothing.
To fall into infatuation with no sleight of hand
To have the floor drop below you at the sight of his face.
Not even a conversation, never even a conversation.
You are an amateur, playing a game that you never qualified to enter.

And he? He is the unassuming sun, stopping only to reach his illumination down into the cavity of your lightless eyes. Once, maybe twice. Maybe not.
He is the perpendicular street
Unexplored and full of complete and utter wonder
He is the manifestation of all that I wish him to be.
He will never be what I wish him to be.

4.) Go home. Write a poem. Go to sleep. Listen to music. Anything to stop the racing of the glow of your heart. Dream of a future. Without him, without this.
Keep Dreaming.

i watch her lips move as she speaks
the symmetry of her face
stained glass eyes with cheeks of rose
a complexion as flawless as a fresh spring day
my heart is broken with every word she speaks.
for i feel my imperfections resounding more clearly in her beautiful frame
than i ever could in a mirror.
legs longer than any lie of self-love that i could ever spin
her waist narrow, molded into galaxies that boys will dream of grasping.


if she is spring, than i am the middle of february.
my skin is clear the way that the sky is green
my figure an ominous cloud of a long winter
lackluster, abrasive
daring those who look upon it to find themselves immediately disinterested

for i hold no fear for the oblivion of darkness
would march into the depths of the sea without glancing back
pretty girls are my sole fear
for i know that by the end of the day
you will look to her and, much like myself, not find a single flaw in her effortless effervescence,
and i will go by without so much as a passing glance.