Call me by my name while I fight this hold of shame.
It's a wave that crashes over, way above my head and shoulders.
Keep hinting at how you feel, still your poor heart I won't steal.
Couldn't bring myself to destroy, one of such a sweet boy.
Don't throw your life away, cause I'm not here to stay.
Don't think I'm yours to miss, it was simply just a kiss.
I warned you of my demon, you heard every possible reason.
Yet you still pursued, and now you feel used.
When really I did it all for you, for I never wanted to.

No one has ever broken my heart.
Most would say that’s a gift,
but I am not sure.
Maybe it is not that my heart has been broken
but I’ve never let myself be close enough to anyone
for it to be broken.
At night before I sleep
I think of what would happen if I were to be
*****.
If my parents were to
die
suddenly. If
I were to die.
What would happen?
Would I be able to take care of myself,
or would I wither away? Who would I become?
Would my friends care? Which ones?
Maybe I feel unloved, but I don’t.
I have so much love in my life that I can’t give.
I receive but cannot replicate.
I feel it but can not find the place in my heart to give it.

Feeling alone in a crowded room.

That’s what it feels like but
in my own mind.
These thoughts that drain me while I sleep
they’re the awkward goth that sits in the corner at prom,
trying so desperately to fit in but refusing to
sell themselves
to the pink dress.
The rest of the thoughts wonder why they’re there.

I have these thoughts not because I’m depressed or
lonely.
I think I think these things because I’ve convinced myself
I want them.
Disgusting isn’t it? To want the amount of suffering I do.
I hope somewhere it’s not the suffering I want but the
emotion.
The state of being overpowered by emotion to the point where
you can’t function.
Where every choice is the product of an emotional
whiplash.

I see these people who suffer in pain. But I’m strange
because I do not see it as horrible I see it as
beautiful.
Their suffering is beautiful because it is a level of intencity
I cannot feel.
A level of emotion that I hunger for but can not reach.
I don’t know why I want this.
Maybe I feel numb, but I don’t really know.
Maybe I speak words to fill the air. Fill the time.
All those words that are safe, they’ve become
boring.
I want something more to say, more to feel than just the daily shpeal,
even if it means pain.

I do not think I am depressed.
I do not know what I am.
I’ve never met anyone like me before.
Maybe I am
alone.
Maybe everyone feels like me but they keep quiet for fear if they speak
they’ll be condemmed to live their life in a
white jacket.

The world is ******* up.
I am the girl who wears pastels then
talks back to the teachers.
Gets straight As but hangs out with the kids who
smoke *** at lunch.
Who is that that you know?
No one.
I want to help those who I don’t think need help,
because society says there is something
wrong
with them. But what if they’re the one who are sane
and we are the insane?
Maybe we’ve been manipulated to think we are in control but
we’re not.
They are.
The ones on the streets and in the straight jackets.

Insanity is the highest level of intelligence.

The only thing I like
about nights like this
is that it gets so dark
and the skies are so clear
that they look like
the little boy who trapped us all here
decided to have mercy
and pin-***** little tiny airholes
in the lid of our mason jar

but there aren’t enough
to make a difference

Her lit cigarette burns
so brightly from the porch
against the darkness
it reminds me of a lighthouse
...or a bug zapper.

I don’t see how anyone
can smoke at a time like this
when the air is so heavy
it’s like breathing cement.

The campfire is whispering
something about...memories?
I can't hear it very well
and I don't speak it's language.

The fireflies are out tonight.
I watch the children chasing them
they blink in and out of existence
like little teleporting fairies -
Proof that the little boy who trapped us all here
has not yet succeeded
in snuffing out all of the magic.

One child is sitting away from the group.
swinging alone
carving imperfect circles
with her toes
into the dirt below.
She is staring up at the stars
she looks - concerned.
I cannot help but
wonder what she's thinking.

The campfire is dying.
I watch it gasp for air a few last times
before putting it out of it's misery.

you said you only felt alive that time you almost fell off the Eiffel Tower.
some days I wished you did just so the suspended image in my head would fit –
eyes wide, lips parted, fingers splayed, every part of you split open head to toe,
spilling secrets into grey Paris wind,
settling like ***** snow on rooftops where I
play guitar and sing and pretend
that somewhere we are fingerpainting naked
and learning how to surf on beaches in Santa Dominica,
climbing trees and ripping jeans and loving

as we laid there
in the false light from the ceiling
I felt the need to ask you
how there came to be
two oceans on your face
above a smile when parted
let out pieces of your mind that
I tried to catch
how, in fact, did I come to know
you under those black-rimmed glasses
under a once impenetrable wall
of stone and ivy
how can I drink in
every decibel of your laughter
while knowing I will never drink
from your mouth

Even the skies are crying for you today,
Beloved soldier.