In a land of only rocks and water,
A boy is searching or answers.
He wants to learn to trust,
to learn how to stop drawing lines,
to learn how to be happy.
Right now the boy is alone,
but soon his burden will lighten,
with a new friend.

But the boy wants to forget,
all of that for a moment.
He looks up to see the water,
the islands of rock,
the open sea in the distance.
He sees the sky,
mixed with pink and blue,
and on the other side,
clouds rolling in for the night.

Time has slowed down,
the boy is in his own world,
one filled with words to write,
but none that he can speak.

What is it that kills creativity?
Some say pain and oppression,
others say that it's the false constructs,
forced upon us by society.

But it is much simpler than that,
for creativity thrives under pain,
it paints its pain into words or pictures.
When happy,
creativity blossoms with inspiration,
and hope to share through pen and brush.

What kills creativity,
is the lack of emotion.
Numbness that suspends time,
disregards all wonder and presences,
for there is nothing to create when there is no dream.

So creativity floats in a sea
of numbness until new feeling is discovered.

It's that time of year again,
the time we all know is coming,
and start thinking about the weather changes,
to frosty mornings and amber trees.

After a day of feasting,
avoiding questions from nosy relatives,
the nipping wind sends a chilling reminder,
that the time is almost here.

It's the night before,
everyone's eaten and
we rush off to bed,
but some can't sleep,
and stay up late into the night,
trying to find a hint of what's coming.

Then the next day comes,
where everyone wakes up,
and rushes down.

They shovel down their breakfast,
and check their bags to make sure they have everything,
then it's time for the surprise.

The surprise everyone has been waiting for,
everyone anxiously waiting,
with an eerie silence that hangs like a dense fog,
only broken by the sounds of paper being flipped around.

Some go through it quickly,
while others take their time.
When they finish,
there are shouts of joy and happiness.

And once it's all over,
everyone sleeps and relaxes.

The time has past,
until the end of the next semester.

The radio plays the local station,
They never stop moving.
Like ants in a colony,
Everyone has their job.
The queen barking out orders,
And the workers building it.
So focused on the next task,
They forget to celebrate
Each new thing they build.

The wind has turned bitter,
The earth, frozen beneath my feet,
Traveling in a pack,
With our measly tent,
Wrapped up in blankets,
Huddled together,
The warmth thrives.

Outside the tent,
The wind bites,
The rain freezes,
Like tiny needles,
Looking in,
The fire that survives,
Gives no charity,
The gap seemingly infinite.

The fire gives no warmth
To those who will not contribute
Part of themselves as kindling.
But once this is done,
The fire shares its heat.

Learn this,
You'll need it
For being outside the tent
Will freeze your heart
And take your life.

A year has past,
And I am no longer the same.
But neither are you.

You were the girl,
Who turned from autum to summer.
With golden radiance,
I found myself looking to you,
As a beacon of hope,
In my dark sea of sadness.
You showed me the magic
Of paper and pen
And I was instantly enticed.

With every word you wrote
Every comment you spoke
I felt hope,
That I could learn
To voice my concerns
And finally earn
The right to speak, in turn

Now I don't see you write,
I don't hear your words
That resonated within me.
But it's okay,
Because you're doing something greater
Than just helping me.
You're creating beauty,
For the world to see.

And I am just as guilty.
In my metamorphosis,
I became complacent.
But a little medal around my neck,
Reminded me of the gift you gave me.
So those words on paper transformed
Into the sounds of my own thoughts.

You helped me find a voice on paper
But now it's become words

I hate mirrors,
because they never show me.
Every time I look,
there's a stranger,
sometimes with scars,
other times with red eyes.
He changes his hair,
but his eyes always,
are so foreign,
that he's not from here,
and I don't know him,
or what he's like.

A letter to myself:
“We're back here again,
this yearly cycle.
Start by hearing your voice from the past,
ask not why but how,
and keep your web strong.
It’s ok now,
things will get better for us,
all of us.
Now that the secret is out,
explore the doors that open,
and expect some to be painful.
Hats are your friends,
they will hold you and keep you warm.
A double sided symbol,
to show your life each day,
for the rest of your life.
The sounds may be stolen by winds,
but ink is heavier than air.
Heaven and hell,
there is no difference to me,
there is only the moment,
so snap out of this dream world.
Two quotes in my mind,
‘You must let these words run free’,
‘The only reason for life is the one you give it’.”

We need to smile more.

We spend,
most of our time,
trapped behind a screen.

We learn,
to express ourselves,
with a colon,
and a close parenthesis.

What ever happen,
to the key to happiness?
Now we have,
the keys to happiness.

We need more real smiles,
or else those keys,
will blind us,
from true happiness.

Standing atop a cliff,
Looking out to the sea.
The wind blows strong,
And churns the waters.

As the sun sets,
I look down,
At the waters,
That have carried me.

Then I begin to wonder,
What would happen,
If I dived in,
And let the waters,
Take me forever.

Today is cancelled,
woke up to storm,
inside my head,
and a pain,
in my heart.
The reconstruction,
of my mind,
is backed up,
and the power,
went out again.
So I'll go back to sleep,
with a hat over my eyes,
and start again tomorrow

It starts off so simple
Pitter patter,
Like finger drumming on a table.

Then comes the chorus,
Where the rain comes down
In showers for us.

Finally the thunder booms,
The lighting flashes,
And you feel the ground shake,
The sky crack,
And the earth beaten down

Then settles,
Pitter patter,
As it drips down of the trees.

I once had a guitar,
Where the frets would scratch my hand,
As I played.

The scratches reminded me,
Of my scratchy chords in the beginning.

But I kept playing,
Because I wanted to play my music,
And it kept scratching.

After awhile,
My hand built up a resistance,
And my music was heard.

All around me, I see it.
My friends are told something is wrong with them,
Then that a pill will fix them.

I see them sad,
Angry and tired,
Suffering , but it's just the side effects.

Soon I'll probably join them,
Suffering the side effects,
But it's okay cause "it will fix me".

We live in a society,
Where medication is treated like candy,
The sugar helps for a bit,
But then you crash.

So tell me doctor,
What's wrong with me?
Cause it's a pharmaceutical Halloween.

Looking at blank faces,
they stare at blackboards,
because they have to,
or else they get a slap on the wrist.

Walking through the halls,
the all move, shambling along,
like zombies following a piece of meat,
just going from one spot to another.

People talk,
and rumors spread,
through quiet whispers,
and small notes.

You get up early in the morning,
and take the long drive there,
and as you walk in, you see,
"welcome back!" to mindlessness.

Everyone has an infinite number of faces.
Each one is a different person,
Around different people.
And each is ever-changing.
But there is one that we all have,
at the very core of who we are.
This inner-most face,
this pure facade,
shows our true selves.
It is made up of our tragedies,
and our hopes and dreams.
It is a reflection of the consequences of life.
This is where our terrible demons hide,
and next to them our greatest ambitions.
The good and the bad,
existing together in us,
because without one,
the other cannot exist.
And so we repress our inner selves,
to hide the demons and desires,
but limit our passions.
So we put on a new mask,
and hope that can satisfy,
our hunger for a fulfilling life.
Only to be let down again,
and pushed to into a new skin,
where you can't say what you want to,
because that's not who you are to others.
And you can't look into the mirror,
without seeing a stranger,
dressed in strange clothes,
who talks strange,
and moves strange,
like a puppet on strings,
being control by our costumes,
that give us acceptance in society.
So puppet master,
mask makers,
costume weaver,
create the new person that society wants,
and toss away the real me,
all because of the dark secrets I can't tell.

The Grey is blurred,
It is not white,
Nor black,
But somewhere in between.
The Grey is vague,
It is not definitive,
Like its cousins,
But lost somewhere in between.
The others have homes and groups,
But the Grey is not accepted at either,
Because it has parts of the other.
So the Grey wanders,
For eternity,
Doomed to be,
Somewhere in between.

Shouting,
That's all I hear now.
My parents shouting,
Everyday, never stopping.
My friend shouting,
Over what's right and what's wrong.
My thoughts shouting,
A constant storm,
That never quells.

Every day,
I wake up in a box room.

Each day,
there is something I must build.

Each night,
What I built disappears

And the cycle continues.

I wonder what it's like outside of this box,
Are other people also building in box rooms?

I will never know as I sit here,
Building every day,
In my little box.

Clicks and scratches,
that's the sound of my voice.

The clicks that go late into night,
create worlds to explore,
and help store my thoughts.

The scratches create works of art,
from the carefully crafted message,
to the large murals of my life.

My voice is no longer needed,
for I have found a new one,
but then I realized that,
I never used the first one anyway.

Repeat: to do something again,
the cycle on the washer & dryer,
matches the spin of my life,
everything constantly jumbled and changing.
I'm taken out after cycle,
folded neatly, worn and then I got back,
to be cleaned because I am ***** and a burden.

The same rules turn up each cycle,
the only difference is the players.
Each time I think that it will be different,
that the cycle will break.
But now I think,
that that hope is just a piece of jewelry,
that someone likes a lot for a little while,
then sends it away.

The story rarely changes,
the soundtrack is just and old broken record.
But every time, I  try to escape,
and then the game is over,
the other players leave,
some return,
but the close ones never do,
a fissure opens up,
to drop me back,
into the tumbling turmoil of my tale.

Everyday is the same cycle,
they lose their meaning,
because they don't change,
but I keep trying,
because I think something will change,
some Romanticized version of my story,
where things work, dreams are real,
but those dreamy ideals themselves,
work their way into the cycle,
and add to the rules.

Repeat: to do something again
"Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results."

What do you do,
when you're caught,
in the middle of a war,
that you didn't know,
even was happening.

On both sides,
they act like angels,
around me.

But both insist,
that  the other,
is really the devil.

And even after,
hearing this,
they both still,
act like angels.

So who,
is the real devil?

We never grow up,
inside all of us,
there is that small,
innocent kid.

I found him again,
and we cried together,
as we remembered,
how fragile we truly were.

I remember laughing,
Hanging out with friends,
Falling in love.
Things we're supposed to do

The laughter starts to disappear,
The friends all left,
Love becomes a foreign concept.
Things that happen.

It all starts to blend together,
Numbness replaces all emotion.
And you lie awake at night,
With a mirror and a blade.

At the sight of red,
The knife goes away.
No pain, no tears,
Just numbness.

Irony is a funny thing,
A poet who is at a loss for words.
Everyone always told me that if there was a problem, talk to them.
But how can you trust them with something so serious?
How do you even start a conversation like that?
"Hi mom and dad, I have anxiety attacks and cut myself and its just getting worse."  
Yea no,
That's not how it works.
Maybe you just pull up your sleeve and show them the scars.
Nope
Mabye I try to show them that the person in the mirror isn't me.
How the hell do you do that?
You don't.
So I tried writing it down,
Then I tried to read it allowed,
But I lost the words again.
So I put it in a letter and sent that
It was the hardest letter I've ever written and will be for the rest of my life.
There may have been no words from my mouth, but that's when I found the words from my heart.

The fear of judgement,
Hiding the scars,
No one can keep it up forever,
You slip up once.

But it's okay,
They accept your faults,
And begin to help you.
They care, they smile.

You start to trust,
You feel safe.
The fog lifts,
And you feel the sun on your skin again.

We tell stories
of all the people we meet
and here you are
standing there just
watching me
relive the pain
from you
standing so far away
from this world I have ran
to the stars beyond us
chasing the image
it's you it is those
who dare try to help me
shatter my soul
with all the false constructs
a palace of dreams but
a prison of isolation no matter
their effects are all the same
things keep happening for
the cycle must go on
just as the seasons turn
to do great things
that I will tell
those who will listen
will learn my story
filled with those around me

Shaking 10,000 feet up,
Terrified of every bump.
I realized,
It was a rough start,
But it will smooth out.
It always does.

It's amazing,
how so many words,
go unspoken each day.

Time spent staring at colors,
nothing being said,
no one connecting.

The traditional voice has passed,
for a screen with 1s and 0s.

But some find their voice,
in this new place,
yet they don't put it on paper,
which leaves them silent as well,
in the world around them.

The beauty of harmonies,
can rarely be heard now,
when the silence is so loud,
and heavy it feels crushing.

The songs of man and woman,
are hard for me to find,
because I've forgotten,
what my own melody sounds like.

I can't remember,
when it started.
I just know,
that the shadows,
are always there.

The exist only ,
in the corners of my eye,
darting around,
like a ghost.

They began,
to look like people.
So know,
they are my shadow people.

And now,
I realize,
that I've been,
a shadow all along.

Almost invisible,
only moving in the dark,
and just beyond,
the grasp of others.

They say the first is the hardest,
The first line.
Then you slide down,
One becomes two,
Two becomes four,
And four becomes eight.
The pain isn't bad,
But the shame is terrible.
Everyday hiding them,
Scared of what they will say.
So more lines are drawn,
And the cycle continues.

I  have dreams and hope,

my life will never go anywhere.

I've met amazing people that are my friends,


I have no friends because they all ignore me.

I'm happy where I am now and the things I can do,


I am an outsider that has no place here.

Only when I am not or do not have,
I begin to see the gaps in my story.

A boy went out,
On a journey to,
Calm the waves of his mind

When the boy returned,
He was greeted with smiles
In front of the house

However the boy,
Notice some who,
Had stayed inside,
And hid behind windows,
To hide their feelings,
Of sadness and trouble

The boy wanted,
to help these people,
But it had to be them,
Who opened the door.

Friendship,
A bond between two people,
Support for each other,
An ear to listen,
A voice to advise,
A shoulder to cry on.
A mark that may fade,
But never disappears.

I walked outside,
Only to realize I was lost.
I was in the middle forest,
Surround by a green silence.
Despite the nature,
The moment felt blue
With an underlying yellow
That made me smile.
This moment was timeless.
It was like a bubble,
That floated through the universe,
Simple and peaceful,
And never changing.

The leaves have all fallen,
the wind bites at your face,
whispering that the seasons are changing.

The snu will begin to fall,
and when it does,
the days will be filled with,
icy gloves and wet carpets.

Everyone loves the snu,
and when it leaves,
people are left cold,
and searching for warmth.

Each day with the snu,
can feel like an eternity,
to those who want it the most,
to bring happy days to them.

Because when winter comes,
the sun falls.

What do dreams,
exist for?

To those who,
dream of gold and success,
they wake up motivated to work hard.

But for those,
who dream of,
things that are,
beyond their reach,
wake up heartbroken,
and left in despair.

So why do we dream,
if it hurts us?
I've tried,
to run from them,
by not sleeping,
but they still find me.

When they do,
they're sweet and kind,
the ripped from me,
and in that moment,
of despairing,
I would choose,
100 nightmares,
over a dream of what I long for.