Here's a thanks to my grade school teachers

thanking my first grade teacher
for getting me into writing

thanking my second grade teacher
for letting me write a longer book than anyone else
and teaching me it was alright to be different

thanking my third grade teacher
for being stern with me
and letting me know that not everyone is going speak to you with sugar coated words

thanking my fourth grade teacher
for showing me to share a little bit of yourself with everyone

thanking my fifth grade teachers
for helping me with the first year of middle school when no one else would

thanking my sixth grade teachers
for probably the greatest year of my life and teaching me life lessons I wouldn't have gotten until now

thanking my seventh grade teachers
for teaching me that being funny and creative is nothing to be afraid about and giving feels just as good as receiving

thanking my eighth grade teachers
for making me feel alright about the scary transition coming up and bonding with my classmates even more

thank you for helping me grow up

if you’re only truly yourself at 2 A.M.
then i’m *******.

because i’m all never ending nonsensical babble
and maniacal hysterical laughter
and psychedelic daydreams
and unconsciously conscious
and loose lips.

and i’ve got heightened senses and it scares me sometimes
it scares whomever i’m with sometimes too

i find everything hilarious
from the ceiling to the floor
i’m absolutely delirious
and i run my mouth more than i should

i tell secrets, i share gossip
my brain takes a short vacation
and my filter shuts down
and even my subconscious seems to have the day off

and there i am
on a bed, on the floor, on a couch, in a room
in somewhere, with somebody, doing something

and i go crazy.

so if you’re only truly yourself at two o’clock in the morning
i’m gonna sleep through the night every night
and hope i don’t wake up until it’s nine.

I want to write something worth reading
But my eyelids are heavy
And my hands aren't steady
And anything worth writing
Will still be written

it’s 2 am here
and it’s 2 am where you are
i don’t love you;

i hate that we both shiver at
the same bar of the same song
the same seven words.

and i hate the millions of melodies
that i’ll always associate with our summer
and the autumn that didn’t belong to anyone.

but i love your voice when you’re not speaking my language.
sing me to sleep in your language and i’ll love you in mine.

and i love the music you send me.
it sounds best at 2 am
when my toes are cold and you’re in
the midnight sun.

Creativity,
It’s like lightning.
I’m told it doesn’t strike in the same place twice,
But it strikes me over,
And over,
And over.
In the dark of midnight,
In the in between,
It has no sense of time.
It cares not about my tired mind.
The words like pounding rain,
Bouncing around my skull.
I cannot shut it off,
I cannot silence it.
They waver like a scream in my throat,
Building,
And I must release it.

I find peace in lightning
So strong and powerful yet naturally beautiful
It has such ability to **** yet its surges of electricity keep us alive
With bright trails of intense light it taunts us
Reminding us of its presence
So bright, so stern yet as breathtakingly gorgeous as a delicate flower
I relate to lightning as another may relate to fictional being, though my connection is quite real

Have you ever seen a clouded night
the darkness suffocating?
Have you ever seen the blinding light
the darkness all-negating?

Have you ever felt the black surround
when you were all alone?
Have you ever felt the lightning shake the ground
from celestial heights unknown?

Have you ever felt the spray upon your face
from a coming, speeding storm?
Have you ever known the even pace
of earth's rain-brought reform?

If you've never seen a lightning-light,
or felt it burn your eyes
Upon a cool late summer's night—
then you're in for a surprise.