Tomorrow looks bright,
from the shadows of today.

Today:
How can I be so full
of thoughts
of doubts
of emotions

but feel so empty?

How can I be surrounded
by loved ones
by blessings
by oppurtunities

but feel so alone?

I'm losing in a battle against myself
and as I sit here and give into these emotions
I am contributing
to my own demise.

Tomorrow:
To win this battle
I must **** the old me
and throw the shell of my old self
into the flames
I must then find a new me
within the ashes.

A timeless truth:
The light of tomorrow always shines brighter
as we look from the shadows in which we dwell.
It is up to us,
to leave those shadows
and to embrace the warmth
of the sunshine.

"blond hair, black lungs."


Cigarettes kissed her lips
Like someone who didn't deserve her.
Both promised her dreams of happiness
Both delivered internal hurting.
Soft lips led to a damaged heart,
Like the kiss of smoke filled lungs.

Sometimes we just don’t care though.
We hold that cigarette in between our lips,
We breathe in that someone who will surely hurt us.
All for the hope that
these moments that they are on our lips
Might somehow last forever.


"blonde hair, black lungs."

As humans,
we
are
loving
creatures.

But,
if
you take
away
the love,

what
is
left?

It’s an endless cycle. These words. These feelings. Black paint spread across my face hides the truth that lays beneath. You were once beautiful, shining like no other, illuminating every room you sat within. Now the room has fallen dark, and you only get glimpses of the sun through cracks in your mask. You’ve began to lose hope. The door sits, waiting for you. But you do not trust the journey towards it because you can’t see it clearly. It’s an endless cycle. These doubts. These fears.

oh

I thought
you were mine,
But I guess
that was all in my mind.

We want
Something
That fills our lungs.

But
That holds the power
To stop us breathing.

I want to write something real

I want to write something genuine

I want create something beautiful

maybe something someone will someday depend upon.


You see, for me its all about purpose

About fulfillment in my life

maybe I'll fall in love

Lord knows that I have tried.


My mind is ruled by falling for

Things I wished were real

Like a person who might be the one for me

Or a place in this world that I might fill.


I think about things I'm thinking

And then think quite a bit more

I'll never really understand

just what all of these thoughts are for.


I want to be writer

Someone who inspires.

Someone who is real and true in their words

and who's courage never tires.


My mind just feels so selfish

constantly thinking about itself.

I want to be more selfless

But for that I might need a little help.


So I'll slip away from my wants

my desires and my greed

and maybe someday soon

I'll become the someone I  n e e d  to be.

I wish I had never fallen for you
because eventually
I landed.

~

I think about the simplicity
of writing
And of being a writer
And I realize
It is not that simple.
There is a fine line in their difference
To me.
I know I want to write
But I feel as if to write and to be a writer
Is two completely different things
Within themselves
To write
Is to pour out one’s self in efforts
Of articulating thoughts and ideologies
Through rhythmic wording and organized dances
Between ink and page.
But to be a writer
Is a lifestyle.
It holds a responsibility
To perform
To meet a standard of artistic expression
In the very articulation of an individuals thoughts.

Nothing in my head makes any sense.
Writing seems to be
the only thing that does.

I am in love with you,
Love.
I want so badly to need somebody,
To be the somebody that they need.
To commit my whole heart to them,
and for them to commit their whole heart to me.
Too often do I love the idea of a person,
Rather than seeing them for who they really are.
Love intoxicates and skews my vision.
And it tears my heart apart.


Oh, I am indeed in love.
Not with him and not with her,
But with an idea.
The idea of loving someone who is deserving of my heart.
The idea of loving so fiercely that our spark will never dwindle
I am in love with you,
Love.

We slide into my room
And fall onto my bed.


Tonight, I sleep alone
but not lonely.


You, within my head.

We blow air
through lips she carved from dirt,
replies with hurricanes and thunder
but nothing more.

Ears, eyes
Made to listen and see
The silence, absence, in harmony

We’ve been looking for a color
She said she made
something between the blues and greys.

In our first minutes
I think We had it
But some days, most days, the color fades.

They said
That it would be like this
that these are just growing pains.

But
Then the growing turns to going
Todays turn to yesterday.

She said she didn’t mean
For the suffering to happen
But that she controls their fates.

Look up look up
Its endless
Our wings could never carry this weight.

There are no words
to finish
The thing that never seems to end.

look
with eyes made to heed
But we can never see the wind.

I would be lying
if I told you 
that I get lost
in your eyes.

Losing myself in you 
would mean
that I had already been found.
It would mean
that your eyes showed me
something 
that made me surrender 
my sense of direction.

Direction in life,
Direction in that very moment.

But with you it's different.
I dwell
already 
as a lost soul,
gazing through the windows of your eyes,
discovering a perfect me within them.

In you
I see my culmination,
in you
I am endowed.

I am not lost in your eyes,
I am found.

we poke sticks at the spider webs in the yard.
we whisper promises to a moonless sky.
I hear your cries but don't listen.
Just as you look into my eyes but don't see.

The fog is lifting, but only to reveal the cracked concrete that we stand on. The cold is fading, but only to spark a flame that will once again singe my fingertips.
My stomach turns when I think of sleep. All the motions of yesterday seem to fade away when I dream. They're lost in the darkness, dead upon impact, pillow to skull and then it’s all gone.

I never could draw. It was something about the heads, the eyes, the hands, that I never got right. The feet always ended up different sizes. I could never capture that thing we tend to have. The silent thing. You know, the thing that you can’t put words too. That thing that's gone when you're dead, when the blood stops rushing, and the palms stop sweating. Not the skin, not the nice faces, not the smiles and tears.

Give me what I can manage, I can hold it for now

Looking back
it's all about moments.
A kiss from a loved one.
A smile from a friend.
A glance from a special someone.
A tear for a sorrow.
All memories accompanied by heart-felt emotion.
Today,
tomorrow,
will all be moments.

You
are my favorite moment.
If only this moment,
could last forever.

Look at the clouds,

soak in the sun.

Channel the nerves in your body

And feel.

Feel all the emotions

Surrender those which bring you down

Embrace those which give you wings.

Find a balance in the dark,

And learn to close your eyes

When the lights shine too bright.

Look into the mirror

And learn to love what you see.

Be real.

Love real people .

Be honest with others

And with yourself.

Be mindful.

Dont waste time

Life is short

So dont waste time.

Cherish the sunrise

And be curious of it’s setting

Notice it’s colors

And appreciate it’s beauty

Dance to songs of rain

And sing along to songs of thunder.

question everything

But also be vulnerable to many truths

Jump into life

Be loud

and real

find someone who you want to share the stars with

Someone who will listen to love songs with you in the rain

And drink tea with you at neat little coffee shops.

Look into the stars above

See all the possiblites that the sky holds

and all the possibilities this life holds.

Be forgiving,
Be true,
Be loving,
Be passionate,
Be kind,

Stop wasting time.

i sit alone a lot
i sit alone a lot and think

overthinking
about myself
overtinking
always about myself
about my problems
about my faults
about the things i wish were different
about the ways i wish i was different

. . . and then i met you.

now
i sit alone a lot
i sit alone a lot and think

only about you.

There’s an innate understanding in sadness.
To look at the moon and to notice the shadows
Is not to ignore the haunting glow of its shine.
To look at what hides behind the sunshine,
beneath its smile,
Is not to crave the silence in the night.
To keep dancing in meadows of light
But to start crying in the rain.
Each drop, both from skies and tears,
Washes away the built up layer
on cheek and earth.
That is beauty in sadness;
deaths kiss,
sweet and heavy.

Is this just rainfall?

Or is the sky weeping for us?

I thought I understood it. I believed I could hold it with an open hand and that it would stay. But on it floated. You, with your shoulder length curls filled with bleached strands and earthy streaks of brown. And me, with my clumsy efforts and anxious eyes. To fall for you was to sink into an ocean of tranquil depths beneath mountainous caverns but to still feel the embrace of sunlight. You were the sky, with it’s blues and it's whites, and just like the sky your eyes held deeper beauty than that of mere color. Float with me as I fall away from this shadow and deeper into the blooming of tomorrow's flower.

This city gives me wings.

we as writers weave words and phrases together
so tender and gently
just as tender and gentle
as she was to me

The ghost of yesterday
Found a home in my mind.
Haunting my every step forward,
And rejoicing in my steps backward.

I can still see it though,
The blues and greens.
And all the colors
That lay between.

Your eyes.
They still glisten,
But now from a distance.
They almost seem brighter,
From the shadows in which you now dwell.

A shadow that covers my face,
When attempting to feel the warmth of the sun.
And a shadow that absorbs me,
When the sun sets and the night draws closer.

They say people are like rain,
Because like rain,
We all eventually fall
In our own ways.

I have fallen,
But not to the ground.
I fell into an ocean of numbness and doubt,
An ocean filled with the deepest of caverns and the darkest of shadows.

But atleast
From these shadows
I can still see the glistening
Of your blues and greens.

And all this time
I was the one looking from the shadows
And you,
you were the one dancing in the sunshine.

I stare into the mirror
at something that isn't familiar.
a dark shadow falls over my face
I see it creeping over me
But I let it.
The light dwindles
and my reflection fades
and I find comfort
in the darkness

I see it ,
the sky .

I see it all .
I see the glistening stars ,
The pillow-like clouds ,
the rays of sunshine ,
Intoxicating to my sight.

I feel it .
i feel the tender reassurance
that everything will be ok ,
the genuine kindness ,
the warmth of her gander .
Exhilarating to my soul.

My vision intertwines with hers.
Makes me feel whole.
The fullness of her gaze
Fills the emptiness I feel inside.

I see it all .
I see it all in her eyes ,
eternity .

Tick
Tock
Tick
Tock

The clock ticks, steady.

Tick
Tock
Tick
Tock

another day has ended

Tick
Tock
Tick
Tock

The batteries drain, tick slowing

Tick—
To—
Tock
Ti—
Tick
To—

Gone now,

silence
overflowing.

I thought the book was finished, turns out I was only one page deep. I opened my eyes and it was bright. I opened my mouth and let out a yell of booming relief. For I now knew who I was today, and who I was going to be tomorrow.

I have been trying to carry the weight of the world and instead learned how to carry my own.

This is the first day of my life.

I’ve been talking to the moon but she’s been distant. All she ever sends me back is rain. I could ride on top of clouds and just forget this. But the longing never seems to fade.

I’ve looking for the moon in all that darkness. It’s the gaps between the stars I have to face. I could ride on top of clouds and just forget this. Or learn how to dance in the rain.

With one look
She told me everything I needed to know

Sometimes i feel like dropping
down to my knees and weeping,
my face pressed against
the dirt and fresh cut grass.
but
something keeps pulling me up,
up until my feet dangle
just above the lawn and i
hang there like a newborn child,
limp and blind in my mother’s jaw.

I live only to forget. And spend too much time remembering.
Remembering the moments before my eyes opened
to lights counterpart. before my voice ached to be heard
by the men without ears. what is thought is never heard
and what is said is often misunderstood.

anxious hands and tired eyes.
The earth was spinning a million miles an hour and then in an instance it stood still, one soul lighter.

my eyes  up like a truck-stop burning. my eyes light up like
an ambulance on fire.
we throw rocks at the ant hill in the yard
we whisper promises to a moon lit sky.

if heaven is above, this must be hell
if heaven is above, this must be hell.

Even the most delicate of flowers
can ***** and pierce with the sharpest of thorns.

You are a light worth going through this darkness for

Sometimes i feel like dropping
down to my knees and weeping,
my face pressed against
the dirt and fresh cut grass.
but
something keeps pulling me up,
up until my feet dangle
just above the lawn and i
hang there like a newborn child,
limp and blind in my mother’s jaw.

I live only to forget. And spend too much time remembering.
Remembering the moments before my eyes opened
to lights counterpart. before my voice ached to be heard
by the men without ears. what is thought is never heard
and what is said is often misunderstood.

anxious hands and tired eyes.
The earth was spinning a million miles an hour and then in an instance it stood still, one soul lighter.

my eyes  up like a truck-stop burning. my eyes light up like
an ambulance on fire.
we throw rocks at the ant hill in the yard
we whisper promises to a moon lit sky.

if heaven is above, this must be hell
if heaven is above, this must be hell.

I remember those times that I would spill my heart out to you through writing.

To me
I was opening my heart up in hopes of showing how much I really felt love for you.

To you
It was just words on a paper.

w a s t e d   i n k .

I used to rip pages out of poetry books and tape them to my walls. I’d try to grab on to each word and pull myself up and over. The walls grew higher and higher and the books eventually ran out of pages. I wrote a poem about my efforts and ripped it out of the journal that I surely would have lost someday. I taped the page to the wall. I wrote more poems and I taped them to my walls. I wrote songs that were sang by kings and queens but the tape would not stick to the songs lyrics. I wrote stories of a boy who would look but never saw and stuck the stories to the wall. I looked with my eyes and I saw the boy in the blank pages. I dug my pencil into the cemetery of lined pages. The kings and queens voices echoed in my head. The poems silence rang louder. When the pages from the journal I’d surely lose finally ran out, I stepped back and looked at my walls.

Windows.

sometimes it feels as if I've ran out of words to write
even though
the thoughts never cease to flow

thoughts
that
are
wonderfully
deranged

maybe they're better unsaid?

Sometimes pen sinks into paper with perfect precision.
Sometimes it stains that page.
Sometimes we love people with every piece of our cracked heart.
Sometimes they don't feel the same.

I guess writing is a bit like loving somebody.
You dig deep within yourself, you scrape the walls of your heart, and you hold out your hands, eyes down, with an offering. Knowing well, that there are others who have more to offer than your mere scraps, more than your anxious hands can hold. But just praying that this one time, maybe, you could create something beautiful, with pen & paper... or with a glance and a smile.

I sometimes feel this pressure.
Seeing these articulate individuals weave words and phrases in such a way that it would send echoes down your spine. Seeing these benevolent lovers, hand in hand, smiling into each other's tomorrow. If I am being honest, well, I've felt like in order to be appreciated, like them, I need to write, like them, I need to love like them. But that isn't the way. That isn't being a writer. That is not how you love.

I wake up sometimes with this complete utter clarity.
Like maybe it makes sense now, here, today. Maybe on this day, my optimism will breath truth into my writing, allowing me to create something genuine. But that same spirit lingers in the shadow, still, beckoning me. That shadow of recognition, that pressure to be accepted, literarily. That pressure to be loved, romantically.

Sometimes pen sinks into paper with perfect precision.
Sometimes it stains that page.
Sometimes we love people with every piece of our cracked heart.
Sometimes they don't feel the same.

Writing is a bit like loving.

You are gold amongst stone,
a diamond in the ruff.
I can see you, down there in the Earth,
but mere sight is not enough.