I
hope
my
fingers
freeze,
crack,
and
fall
off
before
I
have
to
put
this
pen
down,
and
when
they
do
fall
off
I
will
learn
to
write
with
my
toes.

Look at what you did --
you foolish girl.
Don't you remember --
words spoken
long before the crisp autumn breeze --
the oath you took?
The promise you made.
Took some time to rehabilitate,
but just as quickly
you've left all sense behind
for the drug.
You foolish girl,
so easily you thought
you could control it.
Now look at what you've done:
valleys of fire surround the
shattered pieces of
broken glass.
The same glass that he said he could fix,
so you sat in the fire,
let the flames lick at your charred skin,
as you fumbled with a puzzle with no image.
Look at what's become of you.
Do you even remember what it was like before?
No great detective could
paint you a picture of the past.
Look at what you did --
you foolish girl.
That oath will forever echo in your head.
I hope you never forget it;
I hope it follows you to your grave.

Love is a tricky thing.
It can be received, but not given.
It can be lent, and never returned.
You are what you love, not who loves you.

It's a great relief to hear:
you are what you love, not who loves you
Someone else's emotions towards you
doesn't define you.
Its how you feel and
how you act
that really matters.

And yes, you may love
the wrong thing then,
but that's not now.
So that doesn't define
your future!
It's domain is the past.
You must let it rule there,
or else it will
invade your future.
You are what you love, not who loves you.

Love life.
Love happiness.
Love the smell of summer rain.
Love the feel of soft grass.
Love the chill of snow and
the heat of the sun.
Charish what you love.
Charish you.
*You are what you love, not who loves you.

It's the best place to cry.
It's the place where it all surrounds you,
Covering you, engulfing you, drowning you.
It falls over you like every pound of weight placed on your shoulders,
It falls and runs over your barren, exposed, vulnerable body,
And when it hits the floor -- its gone, washed down the drain,
But it's replaced by another, and another, and another,
Never ceasing, never pausing, never calming.
It beats at your back, your face, you chest,
Until your skin in red, sore, raw.
It's the place where you don't feel tears,
It's impossible to tell if they're yours, or the water falling on you.
It's the best place to cry,
The shower.

It's a good place to cry,
It's a mask that protects you,
Covering you, surrounding you, isolating you,
It hides every acid drop that rips away at your eyes and cheeks,
It conceals you from others, banishes their comfort,
It makes you alone, weak, vulnerable
They can't see you, they won't know these feelings, they don't care.
They can't see through their ignorance, so I've used it to protect myself.
It's a mask that leaves everyone none the wiser,
All you have to do is wipe the stray tears away.
It's a good place to cry,
Sunglasses.

It's an unexpected place to cry.
It's a scary place, because everyone can see you.
And the scary part is, they do nothing but watch.
The ignorance of the mask is taken away, replaced with clarity.
They can see tears, but they will choose not to acknowledge them.
Light reflects from it, hiding some features, but the picture is still there,
Staring them in the face.
They can see the redness, watch the tears as they gather and charge your dry cheeks.
They watch, but pretend they didn't see anything because they have chosen
not
to
deal
with
it.
It's an unexpected place to cry,
Glasses.












I'm sorry.
I shall take my pain somewhere else,
Take my suffering to the farthest depths of my heart,
in hopes it will not destroy my soul.
I will feed your ignorance,
your picture of a blemishless world,
And pretend I'm a perfect person, in your perfect world.
I will suppress each tear, choke down each sob, and straggle each tremor,
I'm exhausted, but I must keep running
Running away from your misguided decisions, your accusations, your falsifications.
They are like hot iron, branded into my skin like livestock.
So,
I'm sorry,
I will destroy myself to spare your ignorance.

A face of a child
Round like the setting moon
With squinted eyes that cower from day and
Large, soft pink cheeks.

Body still awkward from sleep
Hair hung like heavy vines
Big pupils -- remembering a lost dream --
Heavy lashes

He's encouraged to dream
To imagine a world
A place where all is his doing and the
Law is soft.

Praise imagination
Paint in unreal colors
And draw things only you can think of
A world for him

His Glasses fade colors
And turn blends into shapes
They no longer want imagination
But clarity

Glasses were forced on him
Without a choice or want
They tunnel the world and shape his ideas
They are not his.

I want to show to him
A world without Glasses
It's all he knows, and he can not see like me,
Without Glasses.