don't get me wrong,
i'm not much of a dreamer,
but dreaming about him once
in awhile wouldn't be so bad

It was because he was mine,
and I was his,
and we were each others.

We ignored the pain,
and the sorrow.

We didn't think of ourselves as poisonous,
or treacherous.

We were the epitome of youth,
and love,
and hope,
and home.

And in my heart I knew that one day I wouldn't be with him anymore.

I would turn to my lover and whisper between kisses,

"I remember the first boy i ever fell in love with."

or

I would turn over to my lover in-between kisses and whisper,

"I remember the first time I fell in love with you."

And god ****** did I hope it was the second one,
because he was mine,
and I was his,
and we were each others.

i love it.

the pain,
the absolute torture,
of my heart ripping itself up,

at first i hated all it entailed,
but now i **** up for fun,
because the shockwaves of aching
is what keeps me up a night,

it livens my body,
i walk around in pieces,
yet i've learned to live with being unfinished,

and maybe it won't get better,
but at least i've learned to love the pain

"boys will never love you when you harm yourself. that's disgusting."

well mother,

"men will never love you if you drink yourself into an oblivion, and completely ignore your family. that's disgusting."

it wasn't meant to end up like this,
but i was sad,
and he was lonely,
and alcohol is nice
for sad and lonely people

i think you are like a drug.
when i'm around you there's this
overwhelming sense of calm,
but euphoria at the same time.
you make my emotions a hundred
times stronger than they usually are,
and that scares me.

what if i overdose on that feeling,
and you leave?

you'll be left fine,
while i'll be met with
withdrawals,
and i don't know
if i can take that,
because everyone
has a breaking point.

congratulations i'm addicted.

i believe bad things happen to good people because they will handle it with a calming sense of grace.

unlike the bad people,
who will destroy everything they touch.

thats just how it is.
the good people always get ******* over in the end.

my mind says,
'i don't need a man',
but my heart
begs to differ.

I sling on my pearls,
and my baby doll dress.

My hair is in curls,
and my room is left a mess.

I'm off to a party in underground London.

We dance in a basement,
our very own encasement,
the place where we can be.

We prance around the room,
screaming words that don't make sense,
but still do at our expense.

We are a movement,
a revolution,
and even an era,
of kids who don't fit in.

Yet, in our own way,
we are freaks of the night,
and socialites of the day.

If I were perfect would you love me?

If my waist was pencil thin would you spare me a glance?
If my hair was long, and flowing would I have a chance?
If I could look like an angel with no make up at all,
would you catch me when I fall.

Sadly I know that you won't.
You like perfect girls.

I'm far from perfect,
we both know that.

c.r.k.

He plays with girls,
uses them for their bodies.

He's never been in love,
just likes to party.

She's shy and quiet,
not one for crowds.

She's good in school,
and not easily fooled.

He's good inside,
there must be light,
he's just not putting up much of a fight.

There's bad in her,
she gives in to quickly,
light 'em up, gulp it down until she looks sickly.

Who said opposites couldn't attract?

it's funny how
all those years
of blowing away
eye lashes, and
dandelions, and
blowing out
birthday candles,
never really works.

it was really ******* cold outside,
and i was really ******* drunk,
i was sad too,
really ******* sad

Maybe it was the way the sun caressed the land below it,
or the way the clouds danced together across the sky.

Maybe it was the way the wind whispered its greatest secrets,
or the way the flowers stretched their arms in the warm spring air.

Maybe it was the way he danced in the meadow;
so care-free and alive.

Maybe it was the way he looked at me;
like even God was blinded by my beauty.

Maybe it was the way he held me;
like someone was going to ****** me up at a moments notice.

Maybe it was the way he loved me;
strong and firm like an oak tree,
wild and free like the waves crashing against the shore,
loyal and passionate like a king fighting for his kingdom's safety,
soft and caring like a mother to her newborn child.

Maybe it was the way I loved him;
more than any words in any language could ever express,
more than any action could express.

Maybe it was the way these things made me feel happiness.

Maybe it was the way they made me feel okay.

c.r.k.

i don't want to think about all the
what if's
and the
oh no's



i just want
silence

their eyes were the
shattered kind,
flecks of pain
and happiness
mixed together
as one. sort-of like
a paint by numbers,
yet way more
complicated with
multiple hidden points
of depth, of history,
the stories begging
against the steel
lining of their minds,                
almost like prisoners
waiting for freedom.
no stories come out though,
because if the stories,
the memories, the pain,
if it were allowed to
come out, then everything
would fall apart. the
very weak bond holding
the gates to their agony,
would burst into
small, disorientated, fragments
of years trying to forget
what happened, and all
that perished long ago
would rush furiously to
the forefront of their mind
like a riptide. all the torturous
thoughts they've worked
so hard to repress
would come back to haunt
them in the worst
of ways...

he would start
to love her again, and
she would start to drown.

it hurts to gaze up into the sky,
and stare at all the stars,
when i know i'll never be one

your kind of like a double negative.

always going back on your word,
never doing what your told,
loving me blindly,
and hating me clearly.

at first it's grey,
that's the only way i can describe it,
it's like you can't hear anything but white noise
or see anything but fog,
and then the clouds form,
and it rains,
sometimes for hours,
and sometimes for years,
and you're just sitting there in the downpour,
looking at nothing,
because your eyes can't focus,
and it feels like your heart isn't beating,
and your lungs aren't breathing,
and it's just you,
all alone,
in the rain,
staring at nothing.

doing what you want,
and what everyone
else wants is never
the same thing.

writers
block
is
the
worst
thing
imaginable.

the feeling slowly creeps up my spine,
shocks my finger tips,
and edges into the inner workings of mind.

"try to distract yourself."
"you'll be okay."

i don't want words of wisdom,
i want the feeling of gut-wrenching relief,
that heinous piece of medal would give me.

all i'd have to do is sneak away,
and drag it across my flesh,
whilst thinking of all my inner and outer tormentors.

i'd finally have that feeling where everything stops,
and the only thing my mind would register is the pain.

you all say i'm better than that,
i'm worth more than my demons say.

but maybe i'm not,
maybe i'm perfectly content with not being okay.

warm hands,
warm heart

If I think about you even for a moment, all of it comes back.

The tears running down your face, staining your porcelain skin,

the screaming that left your throat raw and bleeding,

the late nights trying to convince you that it'll be okay,

but all that was for nothing,

your gone now,

and I'm free from it all,

but I'm also numb.

Numb all over.

c.r.k.

loose lips
tinged with
alcohol,
and
questionable
morals fill the
spaces left
unoccupied
by my
ever-working
brain. shall
i fall off the
bandwagon
filled with
future scholars
and high class
aristocrats?
will i let myself
astray into the
void of heavy
masked, and
dark-clothed
mischief makers
that take up
residence in
abandoned
buildings
drinking
the bad
times away?
i can't decide
if i wanna
tighten the classy
business casual
tie around
my neck
as a noose,
or take a
walk on
the wild
side and
instead get
crushed by
the emotions
that accompany
free *** and
large alcohol
consumptions.

if choosing the path to freedom is your choice,
than freedom truly is a double-edged sword.

Sometimes I think I'm dead.

I'm breathing,

I'm moving,

I'm laughing,

I'm smiling,

I'm doing all the things someone alive would do,

but there's this feeling,

like mold on a bathroom floor,

or the smell of ***** dishes and trash,

or rain coming down in showers on your birthday,

the feeling that, no, it's not going to be okay.

That feeling is worse than being dead.

Because if your dead, at east you can escape the feeling.

c.r.k.

She wasn't unusually happy, nor was she sad.
She was more in between those two things than anything else.
When days got unusually hard, she'd use some liquid courage to get her through the day.

Her eyes glazed over and lost their mirth,
Her tongue morphed into one of a serpent; perfect for slicing my skin with her angry words.

In that moment I could see her her true nature, the one that loved to use her mouth before her mind to bruise my heart.

The one who couldn't stand on two feet, or properly count to ten without messing up.

The one who was under the influence of the devils nectar; sweet and savory, yet poison.

She wasn't a human in that moment.

No, she was a puppet.
A puppet who wobbled, and slurred.
A puppet who was swaying to the devils melodic tune; going only towards the dark side.

What happened to the woman I once knew?
Was she lost between heaven and hell?

nothing in this world
could hurt more
than silently watching
the one you love,
love someone else

Its scary.

We wake up everyday not-knowing how it will end.

We could strike oil,
and become rich,
or find the love of our life
in an old bookstore.

We could get in a car crash and die,
or worse,
watch the one we love die.

That's just life though.

It doesn't wait for you.

i wish i could scream,
let every alcohol-soaked emotion out,
i wish that i could shout
until every tissue in my throat tore apart,

because i see you everywhere
especially places i'm not,
and it kills me, it ******* kills me,
because all i want is to be yours,
but that will never happen,
and i want to lay down and give up,

i don't love you,
i need you,
but you will
never need me

What if our whole entire universe is on the smallest petal of a sunflower?

Or on a measly blade of grass?

On the thumb of a giant?

What if our whole lives are played on the television for someone in another dimension?

What if they watched us go through heart ache and love?

Or our wedding and graduation?

And when we die the movie ends?

If you think about it we are so minuscule.

Like a flea on a dog, or a fly in a fruit bowl.

We are like the stars in the sky, and the pebbles on the ground.

We are a force of nature, and a mystery to the unknown.

We are people, that think they are big.

But really, are very small.

c.r.k

your touch is a dream
i never want to wake up from

your voice is a song
that's reached my top 40's

your laugh is a joke
that's never not funny

your eyes are an ocean
that'd i swim in forever

your lips are perfect
for 'borrowing' my cigarettes

and you are everything i want
rolled up into one being.

i would rather you torture me everyday with unkind words,
than not exist in my life at all.

either way its meaningless.

you'll see me at the bottom of the liquor bottle,
you'll hear my voice in the last sip,
and you'll cry out for me as you stumble,
because just like alcohol,
i'll bleed in your veins for awhile

We only have four years left of piles of homework, annoying teachers, parties that go on until the early morning, making stupid mistakes, not worrying about our futures, and falling stupidly, and whole-heartedly in love. We have four years left of growing up and them that's it, we're grown ups and all the stupid drama that happened in high school will mean nothing, and all the friends and experiences we shared will be memories. Our first lives, and first time will be thoughts in the back of our minds as we go off into the new and uncharted world of college. And all the worries there will be amplified bc it's bigger, and more important than any petty high school or middle school projects. I'm afraid to fail my future, I'm afraid to grow up, and there's only four ******* years left until we have to do that

being broken is that feeling you get when you look at your mother's favorite vase shattered on the floor, and think, "oh well. Theres nothing i can do now."

i know you're not real, but your voice is so vividly clear that i swear it's like a tiny person has made their home in my head.

and those moments where it feels like a shadow is gently tickling my bare back at night, i know these are not visions. i know i am sane.

when i can smell the scent of pine, and fresh mint, i know it's you. i'm not hallucinating! i'm not crazy! you're there! you are!

but i slowly began to realize those haunting calls, and subtle touches, and the faint scent of mint and pine, are not dreams. they aren't visions, or fantasies. but instead nightmares.

they are the memories you've whittled into my brain, slowly but surely ruining my sense of reality.

its funny,

i know you talk about me to others,
because you talk about others to me.

i wish it was me
you were desperately
trying not to get jealous over

between every short pause,
there's silence for a second,
and in that silence i know
you're talking to her,
and no, everything won't be
alright.

i see these news clips,
the stories that go around
and it rips me apart inside

i spend hours thinking about it,
the struggles those people go through

the attacks,
the murders,
the rapists,
the brutality,
the war,
the innocent people
paying in blood,

i see it all and i want to speak up,
shout "it's not okay" from the roof tops,

i'll bring it up at lunch
but my friends don't care,
they don't think they have to,
because "we're just kids"
and "we're too young to understand"

we are the indifferent generation,
because our voices were taken away,
and our opinions were silenced,
before we even had a chance to express them

they all sat there
asking themselves why.

why does time keep
going even though
i want it to stop?

why does the future
seem so abstract
until it hits you full on?

why are careers and
diplomas and degrees
so important in determining
who you are?

these questions without
answers whirl around
their heads,

they stop their eating,
dreaming, cleaning,
and make sure they
never get out of bed.

the questions we ask
ourselves, can't be
answered out loud,

it is only by living
our lives, that these
answers can be
found.

i was twirling,
stumbling over my little toes
and giggling in glee,
i was going places; far places,
i was dreaming; big dreams,
i was a child,
with pure white thoughts
and intentions,
but i twirled too much,
and fell over the edge,
and my twirls were broken
and instead of places;
i was going down,
and my thoughts so pure white;
were blackened,
and my intentions;
were shredded
and then i stopped twirling,
and i stood still.

the night
is our day,
and gin
is our water,
loose morals
are our morals,
and love
is forbidden,

we had a path
that was
supposedly
good,

but why walk
a straight line,
when zig zags
sound better