when i hear notes played
the feeling illuminates my soul
like a kiss on the neck
but less high tech

when she holds my hand
a brilliant melody occurs
to that of bach cannot write
what a sight

when im in the pocket, groovin
or when shes focused on soothing
a line comes out
and infinitely shouts

i love you

How much can you pile
on a paper plate
before it bends and bends
and finally breaks?

But the question is
what is to blame?
Is the plate too weak
or holding too much weight?

Glass and plastic can break too
if they're carrying bricks.
So before you choose your helping
find your strength and then pick.

You're so sweet, all the time, maybe too much.
But yet, it seems like you try to make me angry.
Then you are oblivious to whatever it was that  you said, or did.
And me, being the person that I am hides my anger and develops a grudge.
I may be overreacting to something minor, but I hate it.
And I want to say that I hate you, because lately you've been making me feel this a lot.
I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I HATE YOU
You don't know when to shut up either, you just keep talking when I want to rip my head off.
I've really had enough of this, I'm tired of being so upset that I become ill.
Just leave me be, because I am tired of my feelings.
I am sick of wanting to hurt myself over stupid things.
I am sick of you, I am sick of me.
I am sick of life, and sick of death poisoning my mind.
I just want to die..sometimes.

they tell her she is pretty on facebook
and truth be told,
she has a face like a southern bell...
but she sits with her hands folded
and her ankles crossed
and tips her head ever so slightly to the side,
chin raised
light glinting off
the brooch on her kohl's sweater...

she is not pretty
to me.

she has perfect cheekbones
big eyes
pouty lips
but she sits
like a doll
stiff,
posed,
placed
perfectly
intently
eyes
bright
i want to
smack her until the rag doll comes out
she is too perfect
too sweet
she is so sweet
that she is
sour
to me

I met a girl with fire on her head and in her heart,
Her arms were lined perfectly with the reaper's scythe.
She was beautiful, but she didn't know it.
And isn't that the story,
A sad, beautiful little thing saved by a shining knight,
Because no one cares unless you're beautiful or dying.
I am neither.
So where do I belong?
A young woman, never graced by lips in pure adoration,
The last time I was kissed was
Only because he wanted me to **** his **** and
Even then I was only a rebound because
I am never first.
First? No-
I'm that weird girl at a frat party with
A beer in her hand and nobody to dance with,
No one to make out with unless the guy who asked
Was already rejected by everybody else.
I'm that awkward friend who always
Stands off a little to the side because
I never know what to say.

When I was a little girl, I wrote a poem.
I called it second best, because
I knew my parents' pride wasn't me.
How could it be, standing in the shadow of a
Prom king, football playing, religious, outgoing,
Straight-A, straight-laced son?
I mean, sure, they loved me but
What is love, really?
Can't anyone tell me? Because I'm sitting inside this
Bricked up wall, Invisible to the passerby,
They pass on by, pass me by, can't they see me cry?
No, this wall is too **** high-
Just like the last guy.
And so, I was dead before I was born.
What a cold heart, I'm never warm.
I found the world, but it was broken.
I found love, but it was wasted
Like the last man I tasted.

So, tonight I'm writing a poem
And I'm calling it second best because that?
Is what I am.