I made a beautiful mess, my dear.
It seems as if I couldn't control myself
my words fell out of my mouth
and onto the floor
right by my feet and I tripped over them
just as clumsily as I let them escape
and they formed feelings so true and so new
that maybe you couldn't feel them but you could see them
you just didn't know what to do with them.
And it seems as if my heart exploded everywhere
like bumblebees flying from a beehive
and you thought somehow I would sting you
but really
I was just looking for something sweet.
And I think I melted the first time I saw you
I think my skin slowly slipped away
which is why I couldn't sit still
or find anything to say, in case you don't remember how quiet I was
because as my skin began to harden, I'm not that quiet anymore.
I wish I was had more hands to help
yours were too busy ripping me apart
to put me back together.

On Being a Writer

One must be prepared to live a lifetime of distortion. One must become accustomed to seeing through introspective lenses.
You see colors as words ready to be written. Yellow is a poem about the happiness you feel when he’s looking directly in your eyes. Blue is how it feels to be alone, staring at the wall currently portraying the world not readily available. Green says serenity and peace. Red says you care, perhaps too much for your own good. You see people as treasures. Each one represents more value to your life than any material possession. He is the golden doubloon that is precious to only you, you who values the rarity of an antique so finely in tune with everything you believe in. He is the cloud in the sky that is amorphous. He transforms for only you, you who understands the importance of change.

On Loving a Writer*

One must be prepared to compromise what they’ve learned. One must become accustomed to infinite internal climate.
You must become a story the writer always wants to tell. You must be the start, the middle, yet never the end (because even if you become the end, your story will never meet the same fate). You must become a song that the writer wants to hear over and over. You must become a word that never tires coming from the writer’s lips. You'll learn to tackle the madness with the utmost level of sanity. You'll become a sanctuary for when the nights get too long and too lonely. You must be the stop sign. You must become the halt to the writers’ block. You must become a book the writer never wants to finish.

Day 1 I became a flower. I like to imagine the most beautiful flower you'd ever seen. Perhaps it was real and perhaps it was created in the intricacies of your mind. Day 9 I became a friend, a person you knew but didn't know. Day 17 I became that thought in the back of your mind, making you wonder what you didn't want to. Day 25 I became the paper to your pen, there to take it all in when you believed no one else would. I still would. Day 34 I became more than a flower, more than a friend, more than a thought, more than paper. Day 47 I became a silent ending to a beautifully loud melody. Tuesday it started. Wednesday was bliss. Thursday departed. Friday, I missed. Saturday grew. Sunday, we'd grown. Monday was blue. Tuesday, I was alone. Days and days passed that I can't get back. Maybe I was rain. Maybe I was the sun. Maybe I was everything that just wouldn't stick. Days passed, and I became a migraine Tylenol couldn't fix.

A tale of two, of three, of four -
but focused just on one.
Sixteen years
Five thousand tears
Cause the dirt to become undone

I emerged a fragile rose
Craving nourishment, sunlight
You were the thorn under my nose,
The storm in which the wind blows,
And I could not survive at night.

(My petals leak,
my stems are weak,
you can crush me
- it's an easy feat)

But from the rose a garden grew,
You began to see me shine.
I still was not as big as you
So you took all that was mine

I grew back time and time again,
standing straight up on my own.
I am no match for the stronger winds,
you see - I still need a home

(What roses need -
what you can't give me,
is a home that's always
filled with beauty)

The silence had become so loud,
it created a bigger storm,
I watched my rose fall in the ground,
the dirt I now had formed

But from the dirt, as I had been,
sprouted a smaller tree.
A quiet, lovely evergreen,
to become the biggest you would see

(My branches grew,
stronger than you,
I only need me,
I finally knew)

And from my tree standing tall -
I learned only this way -
I never again saw myself fall,
My roots would not give way.

We come from the same dirt, you and me,
But I became something else.
I became something you could never be,
someone who could help.

(I'm far too strong,
you could not be more wrong -
you'll tire yourself out
before you bring me down)

You've kindly filled my world with listening, but only when you felt like it. Mostly you just wanted someone to listen to you. I needed a lot of listening and I'm really good at listening. Things are funny like that. Not funny in the way where I laughed when you would tell a joke or do an impression. But funny in the painful way like how everyone else could see it but you. Funny in the way that I tried and I tried and oh, how I tried. Nothing was more difficult than trying, so I gave up. I always thought you did too, but now I doubt you ever even tried at all. But I Still Think The World Of You. I'll always see something. Staring into eyes that never looked backed into mine was easy. I never had to worry about you noticing so I had a chance to absorb everything. I never knew what it was like to be ignored until you - I never actually cared. Each time you neglected me only gave me a chance to learn something new. I learned so much and yet I never learned enough. I Hope You Think The World Of Yourself. But even if you don't, know there is someone that does.

Underneath is a sea
Swimming with self doubt is a sure way to drown
Somewhere I can see the surface
Yet I can't escape the anchors of silence and apprehension
My ties are strong enough to break free
If I let them
But then I'd have to tell you
Every time I see you
I'm frozen like the waters I'm battling against
I can't seem to make waves big enough to overwhelm you
I'm stuck in the dark where you can't see me
And I'm lost at sea where you can't find me
My moon can't gravitate your tides
Even though I've yearned to change you
I don't have the power of the current just yet
I fear my message in a bottle won't get to you in time
because my oceans won't allow it
because you're beautiful
and terrifying
and I don't know how to keep you afloat
because I'm already drowning myself
(I don't want to drag you down with me)
(but I want you here with me)
My voyage will continue for quite some time
And though I can see your bright shore
from the deep below
My arms can't propel me anywhere
Unless I know for certain
They're reaching for you

"How can I disappoint you tonight?," masked as,
"Come over."
Scene: a small bed in a quaint room with a jaded girl and her delusions of grandeur.
She wears a mask of rose colored glasses,
and with this mask she pursues finer intentions
with the purest of intentions.
She views request for company as the chance to entice someone to join her tea party,
where she serves optimism with a heavy dose of patience.
"Patience. In Due Time."
The mask causes her to no longer recognize the masks that graze the faces of those in front of her.
What happens when you favor the mask over the suitor?
She's fed lies, she'll go back for seconds,
because their taste on her tongue makes her forget about their stain on her heart.

We all have our masks.

Some of us will wear them day in and day out,
unaware that others might be allergic to their particular brand of insincerity.
Others, like her, will struggle with removing theirs for fear of what lies beneath being exposed.
But if beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
how are we supposed to perceive true beauty if we're looking through a mask, rose colored glasses or not?
She will view things better than they are.
Others will view things worse than they are.
If we can remove the mask,
if we can focus on something other than ourselves,
or if we can stop allowing the world to let us believe we constantly need to give more,
if we can finally see life the true way it's meant to be seen,
we might just allow ourselves
to find what we're looking for.

It took you 17 years to find your niche
you tried dancing, but they told you
your feet hit the ground too hard
so you waited until the glass shattered
then you started running
until the smoke filled your lungs
and they realized you weren't running towards anything
only you started at your shoulders
and ran all the way down to your feet and back up again
before you realized
you forgot to exhale
you were a professional at holding it in
so you knew they couldn't physically take it
and they knew you mentally couldn't take it
the dog can scratch himself all he wants
but how will he know
how to get rid of the fleas

Years of becoming accustomed to the darkness has led you to believe that you have in fact become one with your surroundings. Surroundings that have provided you with a multitude of feelings and emotions so unknown it’s like living life with eyes and ears closed. Everything is exactly the same with only your skewed perspective altered to a healthier and more lightweight state of mind. The same tears fall down the same face but they don’t get too far – stopped short by a smile that’s taken far too long to appear. You stare at it for a bit. It’s a bit ironic, really. You’re so used to shunning the unfamiliar and yet you approach all these unfamiliar pleasant emotions with open arms, arms stronger than ever before. “This is your time.” You’ve been working towards this for far too long. It’s everything you’ve ever wanted and it’s right in front of you. You can taste it and you can see it and hear it and feel it and it’s delicious and colorful and glorious and triumphant and more than you ever could have even imagined. It will follow you around until you accept it. It will linger for years to come after you accept it. You may want to run from it because you’re scared and not quite sure how to deal with it, but good luck. It’s everything you were meant to be and it’s not going anywhere.

Everything (physically) erased, nothing ever forgotten. Every word spoken or written is engrained in my brain, I will never be the same. Unlike no other you came you conquered you (changed). Seven existential hours that would change my DNA and internal making, making, making what I knew up until then surprisingly malleable. Your words your actions your face your voice filled up every millimeter of me that everything else inside was pushed to the brim and seeped out of my pores. Everything I once was became everything you ever were, ever are. There is a chair in the back of my mind that is reserved for you to sit there and continue to hotwire (my mind) and thoughts into something much better than I ever could have fathomed. Your puppet strings control what and who I am and it is impossible to think there is any other living organism that could possess that undeniable ability. There is a keyhole somewhere inside myself. There is a key inside of you. Keyholes the size of pinholes as vast as Sirius. Small, believable, existing. Keys the shape of orchids and birch as natural as the metamorphosis of roots (into) trees. I never knew what (my) purpose was until you. Or maybe I always knew what I was before you and you opened the windows to the (soul) otherwise known as brown eyes so timid to everyone besides you. The smallest organs became so (full of) nothing but visions of you. There is a special place in my slowly beating heart perfectly executed to fit all of you. A twin bed that only holds one girl has an infinite amount of room for whatever (love) you could continue to bring into my life. The impossibility to (for)get and erase has left me with an endless amount of hope to see you again. The possibility of knowing that you are still somewhere out there and I am still somewhere down here, although unsure where. I cannot ascertain whether or not feelings are reciprocated but I know I know they are. I know you know where you are. I know you know I do not know where I am but you could figure it all out for me. You had it all figured out for me. Plans stretched farther than the 3000 miles separating my red string from yours. Our strings are still connected. There is nothing in the world that can cut them no matter the distance no matter the people no matter the time no matter the place. I know and somehow you know fate will bring our two oceans together. One calm ocean full of creatures so logical and tides so serene they make a beautifully flawed human being known as yourself. One ocean plagued by waves and uncertainty as to what is below the surface that makes up a human being, me. Both oceans surround land full of love. Our continents will merge. Our love will emerge. (You, only you.)