I'm not the one, there's nothing you could do
Love's so strong, I didn't know what to do
My shallow heart was no match for you
I'm not the one, there's nothing you could do

And I find I'm not so strong
Your love crushed me so small
Not sure where I belong

And I am saying goodbye
I was stupid and lied
Just sat and watched you die

I'm not the one, there's nothing you could do
I'm sorry that I couldn't love you
My shallow heart was no match for you
I'm not the one, there's nothing you could do

And I am coming untied
I can't handle your tears
Or to know that you've cried

I'm not the one, there's nothing you could do
I'm sorry that I couldn't love you
My shallow heart was no match for you
I'm not the one, there's nothing you could do

I'm not the one, there's nothing you could do

Today I listened to our song.
The very thing that I avoided
like a plague that might **** me --
I forced myself through every second,
exactly three minutes and forty seven seconds.
Every note, measure, and lyric
was a shake in my once impenetrable fortress --
a reminder that even I am not perfect.

and when the sun rises,
a red sky
a red sun
shining red rays
on the rivers of blood that scatter
the field of delicate flowers.
and bodies litter the grass
showered in red dawnlight
like drops of rain on dry concrete.
and we're there - you and me  
we're under the pile,
near the bottom,
because we were the first to fall.

Earth showed me her heart, and I feel obligated to brag.
The yellow beat of its core reached to me,
stretching over the miles as if it were a Sunday stroll.
Its brilliance enraptured me in pinks and oranges;
spilling her love like a drunk poet after heartbreak:
               beautiful yet tragic.
Framed in the white snow; pouring over the slumbering land,
singing to it as a Mother should to a restless child.
Paint strokes, long and smooth, parallel the canvas edge
like a signature move to Earth's greatest artists.
Earth showed me her heart, and I felt my own skip a beat.

I'm not crazy,
I swear.
You can't hear the voice?
The little bird that sits
On my shoulder and whispers
In my ear?
No?
That is your loss.
My voice tells me things
You can not imagine.
He whispers poems to me,
And sings lullabies to me,
And holds my hand when
I am scared.
But I'm not scared,
Not when he's whispering to me.
So I'm not crazy,
I swear.
My imagination is just too much
And needs to be expressed -- out --
Not kept inside because of fear.
You fear for me?
I fear for you
You have never known his whisper,
Or his music.
And you shall live hollow,
Because you have never known him --
Him who is your Genius.

The dullest life lived
is one lived never fully
aware of the world

I'm Mona Lisa.
I miss a paint brush's sweet strokes,
the smell of fresh paint,
his shadow as he labors.
My darling Leonardo.

I'm a broken doll
that sits on the top shelf
and stares down,
with glassy eyes,
onto the other dolls.
Plastic Barbies, American Girls,
Baby Dolls, and Raggedy Ann's,
They are coddled, held,
in a way that is foreign to me.
When I look at myself, I can see
the scratches in the porcelain,
the tears in the dress,
the heart that barely beats.
I'm the only one that can see,
these reminders of him.
I was misused, tossed about,
victim to his emotions.
He's all I've known,
and the definition of all
that will take me from
my top shelf.
I've been taken off the self before.
But the things he said, actions he did,
they weren't like what the other dolls got.
So I put myself back on
my top shelf.
I can feel their eyes,
their wink, whispers, and smiles
of approval.
I've been reached for,
but I turn them away.
I don't want to be misused, tossed about,
victim to his emotions again.
I know that their not all like him,
but I can't find myself trusting again.
So, I will sit on my top shelf,
and smile with red painted lips,
and maybe they won't see the pain inside.

Close your eyes.
Do you hear it?
The soft ticking in the background;
The sound of ink being punched onto parchment.

When you blow out your candles,
close your eyes,
and listen as the paper is reset.
Life is like a typewriter,
equipped with limited paper and red, Red ink ribbon.

Every action:
word, breath, kiss,
is stamped onto parchment.
Some people try to white it out,
forget it ever happened.
But turn the page over,
place it in front of the flame
and the red ink will be there,
a constant reminder.
Read what you’ve written,
be astonished by words,
and ashamed of phrases.
But accept the idea that it is the past, and cannot be undone.

Nothing is planned, for the parchment ahead is blank,
but this is not always a bad thing:
A blank page is like an open trail.
You’re free from restrictions and guidelines.

Will you sit with me,
close your eyes,
and listen for our typewriters?
One day,
when I re-read my story,
I hope you will always be in there,
somewhere close.

Take my hand, dear, and I’ll take you far away
To a place where we can just talk all day

Let me be the one you want to talk to
I’ll give you every last small piece of me
I’ll take the moon from the stars just for you
Let me be the one you want to talk to

Darling, you’re so much more than you let on
Just one look from you and my heart was gone
We could be so much, if you knew my love
You just need to see – we fit like a glove

Let me be the one you want to talk to
I’ll give you every small piece of me
I’ll take the moon from the stars just for you
Let me be the one you want to talk to

I want to take your hand and spin you ‘round
Hold you tight and know what you’re all about
We’ll tap our feet to the faint drumming sound
Together we’ll dance ‘till our soles give out.

Let me be the one you want to talk to
I’ll give you every small piece of me
I’ll take the moon from the stars just for you
Let me be the one you want to talk to

We can shine like the stars on cloudless nights
Like summer rain, we’ll fall without a fight
We’ll watch the lightning with eyes opened wide
I promise to always be at your side.

When I do meet the gun that will not fire,
I cross the trigger that has yet to rest.
My heart yearns for the ear of a liar,
a dark cipher and gnawed gold in his breast,
as fingers ache for the truth in his eye,
gilded guiles, a world he keeps private.
In a dream he shot me sweet as a sigh
with a touch fatal as any bullet,
but dreams melt like red and blue to purple,
creating a world of passion and pain --
he is a chained ankle and an angel,
a cold-shouldered knave and soft summer rain,
     a night vision of hope and black regret:
     a misfired gun I will not forget.

They are forever frozen,
reaching, stretching
towards the skies above.

They are told they
can touch the stars,
just out of reach.

Armies of them are placed
together -- frozen in the battle
to achieve their goal.

Wars are fought, lives lost
seasons past, years fly
they stand there - forever frozen.

Some are as ancient as the
stars themselves,
others are born into the world
with this impossible task.

They are imprisoned
by the earth
but still reach for the stars:
Soldiers
Prisoners
Trees.

Red    ,     red      is     the     color     of     my     hunger   ,
like     the     blood      that      flows      endlessly      from
the    cut    on    my   left   ring   finger  .   Like   the   rose
that    withered    on    my   front   door   step .  Like   the
color    of    my    cheeks   or   the   echoing  of  a  bruise.
Deny    myself    simple   pleasures   like   the   breath   of
another  or  the  feel  of  water.  Giving  more,  more  than
I have to satisfy another. My hunger is red like a lung, but
I’m exhaling more than in -- my hunger is your happiness.


Your hunger is a darkness that is simply nothing like a black hole
of  constantly  collapsing  stars  that  shine  like  an  an­gler  fish’s
allure.   Like   a   deep ,   deep   green   that   feeds   upon   the  
beautiful .   Like   a   hypnotic   blue   that   envelopes   you   in
a    trance    of    one    thousand    pounds .   Destroy  me   like
a    lion    upon    a    dying    prey .   Take    and    take    more
than        what       is      offered   .     Your     hunger     is     an
endless         cavern  ,      inhaling      more      than      out     --
your               hunger              is                 your                  gain.

CV
The initials of a school
branded on my wrist.
CV
The token of my
very first performance
CV
Memories that will fade
just as the ink on my wrist.
CV
Memories that have been absorbed, --
stored -- into my skin just as the ink.
CV
Gone. Memories that are
just fuzzed images now.
Missing. A past that has
drowned in the ocean of Now.
CV
**CV

I wanted to dream.
I wanted to reach an
impregnable state;
a place where the
cold claws cannot clasp
around my humble heart.
And yet, I didn't want to leave.
The jagged jaw that juts itself
deep into my mellow mind
had found a home there.
It's familiar, friendly, and fond of my trains.
Trains that take me no where,
but lead me everywhere.
I have yet to find a train
that will take me away;
take me to a strange world,
and have its
foreign fangs flow flammable fluid
deep into my veins;
It will flood my tracks,
stop my trains,
and I may never be able to
leave.
Trapped.
Unable to escape
this impregnable world,
A world I thought I wanted.

The Pressure of the water
Is almost too much to bare.
The weight that is crushing me
Makes me tarnish and wear.

Waves crash above me --
Remember the forgotten.
The air that folds under waves --
A tease -- makes my soul rotten.

I will crave the oxygen
That I know is sweet relief.
But I am too far under --
Bottom -- to swim through grief.

But, like all worldly problems,
They are resolved by autumn.
I'm carried from the water --
Away from the bottom.

But, like it is expected,
It stays with me.
I hold the water -- Pressure --
With me when I am "free".

Hey guys! Please don't hate me for not posting something in a while, I've just been having trouble finding inspiration. I've been caught up in my religious studies, plus I've been working on a book! Anyway, I just wanted to apologize for the lack of poetry. Now that it's summer, I have to be responsible for setting time aside to write -- and it's harder than I thought. My mind has been wondering tonight, plus I just got back from a pleasant lake vacation, so I expect at least something in these next few days. Until then, here's a typed up version of scribbles from my notebook. They are just ideas that need developing, but I felt like I had to reach out to you guys. I love you all, and thank you for your support <3

-----------------------------------------------------------­----------------------
7-6-15

It all started for freedom & fun, but now it's to forget you

The drinking started
in the name of fun freedom...
now it's to forget.

If that was the last time you ever saw me,
would you be satisfied or regretful?
If I died on my way home, or perhaps
disappeared from the face of the Earth,
would you feel the slightest bit of guilt?

Your call to action is nothing more than a soapbox whisper.
Your yarms of summer romance are nothing but a fisherman's platitudes.

You say that you miss me, yet you act like youre carrying on just fine. You talk a big game, but you don't know how to hit the ball -- or perhaps the most heartwrenching thought: you never intend to play. Just string me along, maybe for a while I'll trail behind because silly me still believes in fairytales and a mystical thing called "change."

The space between the sheets
that mastered your every contour
is hollow like the whistling breeze of a mountain high.
The pillow, the top of my thighs,
that cradled you while you dreamt
is stiff like a rose left cracked and shambled in baking sun.
The spot just above your ear
brimming with memories and 'mares
is cold from the barrel of a constant gun.
Your finger or mine on the trigger,
it does not matter to me,
either way waking with a bullet cozy inside
filling like the space between the sheets
and softening the brain like feathers in a freshly fluffed pillow:
A memory that haunts and delights,
a hug and a kiss
a scream and a tear,
one and the same
like the wrath of tidal waves and soft bubbles of sea foam.

I am the reminiscent glow of warmth in the midst of a light autumn snow: the embers itching for something new to swallow, perhaps another brittle arm of a Douglas Fir or the soaked heart of a Willow, but I wait in agony even if you've been gone for hours because maybe you're just looking for the perfect branch or maybe you've found a new fire to keep you warm?

My skin is nothing but mere ash compacted into a human body, crumbling away with each touch and yet there I was laying next to him after my heart stopped beating with your softening footsteps; he ignited me for a breath and stumbled away for a girl who burns so much brighter than I.

I am a benign fire hazard with a finger curled around an unlit match, salt water drenching its ruby crown and its body straining against my grip, but I can do it myself -- I can keep myself warm if I can only have the will to keep these embers glowing just a bit longer.

Beat me down,
break my spirit,
all I need is one reason to cry in the shower;
to give myself completely to a
thousand lovely drops.
When I lay on my back and
let the water pour down on me relentlessly,
I realize I'm not sinking;
                                           I'm still here.
When I bow my head and
watch the water create a curtain of my hair,
I realize I'm still visible;
                                           I'm still here.
When I arch towards the ceiling and
let the water beat on my raw red chest,
I realize there's still a heart inside;
                                           I'm still here.
Yet my toes are still chilled, aching,
remembering how far I've come and
reminding how far I have to go.
Each stream that runs hastily
down the curves of my barren body
defines more than a physical adoration,
but a renewal:
I am not his,
or hers
or theirs;
the only thing that binds me is my mind.
Wash off the feel of his touch or
the scent of her perfume,
let it fall away like every other lovely drop
and see the world's beauty through your eyes again.

there is Heat in this moment.
this Heat isn't like
a warm summer breeze,
or a blanket on a winter night.
this Heat is like
being forced to take a pleasent stroll
in the blood-shot screams of Hell
all while walking barefoot
on the Sun with a smile.
there is Heat in this moment,
but it seems only you and I can feel it.

It took a while for it to sink in.
The cold truth, that should have dripped onto my face
like an early spring rain, toppled me,
wave after heavy wave,
with the solid wall of a tsunami
that knows no bounds. And when I wake, on the
beach after the storm, I lay among the
debris of everything I had,
everything I built.
Gone.
Well, not really gone.
Ruins of magnificent structures,
things that were nothing but pieces until construction.
It all began to crumble. Now,
the skeletons sit on their graves, staring
me down with soulless passion
while I begin to shiver.

It's like the saying "You don't know what you have,
until it's gone."
When you have absolutely no idea
how very lucky  you are until the
moment after it's all ripped away from
you. Yes, a moment after, because you
have to process slowly what just happened.
A delayed reaction.
Sometimes, depending on how numb you are
to the world that encases  you, it can
be the moment after. Or, if you are
completely oblivious to how lucky
you had it, you could die without a
complete realization.

I knew what I had.
I knew I was lucky.
I just never thought:
It would be me that made it crumble,
I was a malfunction--
Self-destruct too early.
They say you can rebuilt what you've lost,
That these skeletons that watch me can be revived.
But how can you stop a clock that's still ticking?
How can you make it go backwards,
When the hands swirl around, marching in an
Ever vigilant pattern unable to go anywhere but forward?
But I guess that's the point.
You can't change what's been done,
You can't bring back what's dead.
Because, in truth,
It's Gone.

I love rereading old notebooks,
Scanning forgotten phone notes,
And rummaging through filled diaries…
I like to see what I thought was important:
Dreams
         Love Notes
                   Cute Texts
                             Unfinished Poetry
They're almost like gravestones,
The way they define a moment
And hold dear to their date of creation.
Even the ones without a month or year,
I know: your name is in most of them…
Back when you used to randomly tell me you loved me;
All the poetry I wrote for you
But was too scared to ever tell you about it;
The nightmares where you weren't there
And the dreams where all there was in the darkness
Was the sound of your strong yet soft voice.
I love these notes and pages,
These tombstones of a happy time,
Too bad they're gone now--
Just like you.

Dark cloud o'er the sun
You think you will protect me
But you just killed me

Time is such a heavy concept, it falls like a rock but flies like a feather. The more you try to ignore it, the more it burns you; if you were to stare it in the eyes, you would likely go blind. What I'm trying to say is, I hate thinking that in less than 3 months, I won't have an excuse to see you everyday. That, in less than 90 days, they'll give me a piece a paper that is the key to the cage forbidding our distance. In less than 4,400 hours, I'll be packed and a couple hundred miles away. Of course, it'd only be 2,102,400 minutes until I dawn the cap and gown and am released into the world, but God only knows where you'll be and who you'll be with. So, in these last 7,776,000 seconds we have until they call our names and we walk the stage, I'm asking if it's worth it.

You are such a beautiful thing. Brighter than any star, stronger than any metal, softer than any heart... even though you try to convince me otherwise. Call me jealous and selfish, but the thought of you loving another makes my heart concave in a silent implosion. I think it's so very ironic that my heart decided to stop working not long after we said goodbye. It's like a small child that knows what it wants: your arms around me, your lips on mine, your smell on my clothes, your laughter in my ear, your beautiful brown eyes staring back into mine... and I wonder if it's been too long. And I wonder if 7,776,000 seconds is worth it.

When you're nervous
about a certain event,
date, or time, you think
"It'll never come," or
"It's so far away."
But as soon as you
step on stage or
walk into the room,
that certain event
that you're nervous about,
that moment is now.
You're heartbeat is so loud
that it's all you hear.
A giant drum that pounds
at your sanity
and you wonder...
"Can I do this?"
And it feels that
the time you were
nervous, so many days
ago, was just yesterday.
But when the music
starts, the power point
begins, or the whistle
blows --
Everything falls away.
It's just you
and the
task ahead.

My tears are the purest ivory and the thickest acid: they are only shed when my heart stumbles.

I'm going to start walking backwards now: I'm pretty sure I'm facing the wrong way. I can't keep looking into the past and expecting to arrive at the future.

Silence sits heavy in the air around me,
Light whispers flitter above my head,
Studiers in the corner and writers on computers,
It almost sounds like sleeping or waking the dead.
A dreamer at his desk, maybe he is dead,
          His dream is peaceful and mislead.

And still, we sit here, with books lain amuss.
They have claimed this desk their newfound bed.
And so they stare at me, waiting to be opened,
Wanting to be peeked at, or better yet, read.
A story to be read, but the ending I dread,
          The ending where we are all dead.

An ending like such deserves no better from I
But sadly, these endings are published and read.
And who's not to say their words are not true?
A prophet? Yes, it might be - the story we all dread -
the book in which it is not pretty, but red.
          The ending for the dead.

Like a tear so soft
Our love's time has come and gone
Drowning in the rain

In the Light,
we hide.
In the Dark,
we shine.

Such strange creatures
we are
To hide from opportunity
for fear of failure,
To shine behind closed doors
for the feel of safety from gravity.

No matter how hard
we try
We can not hide the truth.

We hide in Light and
Shine in the Dark.
What strange, strange creatures
we are.

He was so convincing
When he invited me over one
Friday night.
I never knew his intentions were
Just routine actions in the dark.
I did all I could, resisted his every move
I swung the lamp and its lampshade
Flew across the room, landing far away.
Flowers of blue and purple bruised
Up and down my body.
And now blood dots his carpet—
And my body lays in cold.
He took my soul, body, and stilled
My heart. He was a greedy man
Who still preys on women like me
And convinces them
To come over one
Friday night.

There's a pyre in my chest, silver and gold
tracing the mountains of jewels and silks,
overlooking the cliffs of lost dreams and
broken memories like a woe lost in hymn.
It constantly burns, but like throwing a
flag onto the flames, it changes intensity --
colors green and purple and blue.
  Sporadic, bursts and sparks
    that threaten to engulf the soul
      that stands too close. I'm absent in thought
        when another memory splices the embers;
          effulgent, phosphorescent, lustrous, scintillating
            with a radiance unparalleled and unchallenged.
              The burns of your skin on mine clutching
                at my throat with such a wraithlike intensity --
                  I gasp.
                    The skirts of my soul catching, ablaze and unforgiving.
                    cowering at the echo of your lips teasing a mere inch
                    from mine. It does not run, does not leap for the
                    chilled waters below, just simply lets the fire burn
                    the smell of your clothes into the air around me --
                    whimpering all the while.

12:00 to 12:01 may just be a fleeting moment,
but it is the longest moment of my life.
For 60 seconds, I want nothing more than
to be with you again.
At the same time, I know by 12:02,
I won't feel this way.
I can hear the clock tower ringing out:

1 - Seeing you again.
2 - How are you doing?
3 - Thinking about how good you look.
4 - "Why did I let you go?"
5 - Feeling your touch in my head.
6 - Are you happy?
7 - Imagining your hands on my waist.
8 - "Why did I let you go?"
9 - Wanting to be able to fall asleep with you again.
10 - Do you think about me?
11 - The pain of never speaking to you again.
12 - "Why did I let you go?"

I don't know why my heart tortures me so.
Why it craves for the one thing my mind rejects.
Is this what it feels like to fall "head over heels?"
Is love supposed to be thoughtless?

I fear I will never truly love
Never truly let someone in for fear they will hurt me.
I've grown up with people telling me
You need to break up before you end up broken
I say that I don't love you,
but perhaps it's the fear talking?
Or maybe it's just the 60 seconds?

in one swift movement
ive casted you out
of my secret world
and i want to think
that youre out somewhere
all cold and alone
in reality
you are probably
fine

i walk all alone
in my secret world
everywhere i turn
memories of you
walk behind me like
ghosts

you are the black line
that leaves the rainbow
stained

you left dead flowers
where we once watched the
stars

you were not content
with leaving your mark
you tried to change me
all i can ask is
why

i guess im not bright
enough to be your
star

Nothing is

                                                           permanent.
The TiDeS are always changing.
Today’s sand isn't the same as
yesterday’s sand.
The shells
come and go.
The fish swim away.
One minute you’re standing TALL;
the next you’re
                          belly up
                                         in a feeding frenzy.

Sharks prowl the surface and

creatures lurk the depths.
There are places man will never go;
and things we’re not meant to see.
                                                                People leave nothing but their
footprints,
but even they are stolen by the noon waves.
The timid walk on paths already forged.
                                                                                                     The reckless run from predetermined trails.
                                                    The strong stride next to the path,
                                                                   but never on it,
                                   because how will you ever know what the sand feels like
                                                          if not with your own feet?
                                                                 It may be hard,
but in the end you’re smarter than the reckless and
                                                                                                                                       braver than the timid.







                                                                   Life is like an ocean.

I put my ear up to the glass,
And hear white noise.
I can see your lips moving,
And hear white noise.
You’re so close, yet so far,
On the other side of the glass.
Your eyes look at me, and see nothing,
On the other side of the glass.
I want to break through,
And feel your skin, your arms; your lips.
I need to break this barrier
And feel you.

I reach for you,
But the glass is cold.
I remember your warmth,
But the glass is cold.
Do you not see me now that
The window has fogged?
Can you see my tears even though
The window has fogged?
I want to wipe away this steam
And feel our connection again.
I need to wipe this veil of questions
And feel you.

Do you hear that
Pounding sound?
Is that you, beating on the glass and making a
Pounding sound?
Is that you becoming a
Clear image?
Are you wiping away the steam for a
Clear image?
Do I have the strength, to wipe away the steam
And feel vulnerable with you?
Lend me your courage to break this glass
And feel you.