We were walking through the field,
staring out at Boston.
I was choking on the whisper
of a memory of another here.

I gathered two wild flowers
and I showed them to you:
the familar
          Queen Anne's Lace has always been my favorite,
and the new
          I don't know what this one's called,
          but it's purple and pretty.
          They're both so lovely together.

I don't think you understood that
I was talking about us.

I just want the kind of peace
you get when
you hum to sad song

                 I just want the kind of smile
                 that slips onto your lips when
                 you hear little kids laughing

                                  I just want the kind of love
                                  you feel when
                                  someone wants you to know they care

                              I just want the kind of complete
                                       you make me, dear~

What day is today?
I haven't done much sleeping.
          I can't guess that look on your face...
     I pass right through you --
       Or you through me.
                                      ...The feeling is the same,
                                No matter the details.

          "The invisible hand,"
                                They say it guides us all.
            That, in combination
                                                  With your well measured affection,
                                           Is perhaps why I feel
                                                    so small.

Bleed in to me
If I cut myself open and peal back the layers
Will you come inside
Can I fold you into me

I have to write the things I can't tell you
It's been driving me insane
You treat me like I'm your sister
And you probably think I'm a pain
But thirteen years is too long to scribble your last name in note books
Play pretend with dolls
Daydream about a wedding that will never be reality
It's so unfortunate don't you think
I choose the wrong guys
You choose the wrong girls
They say I don't want to ruin what I have
I say I don't want to lose what could be
But how do I confess my love
To my life-long "buddy"

I don't think I've ever truly understood the concept of having friends.
Is it that guy that whenever we hang out, we always get ******?
Or is it that guy that forced me to open up to him, yet we only talk twice a year?
Or possibly that girl I always wanted to be close to, but she never let me in?
If so, having friends sure is lonely...

Words are just words.
Though they move with a flow
to match the rivers of my soul.

Though they bend like my bow.
Though they showcase it all:
The love. The hurt.
They're just words.

Though they sing like my strings,
though they can be sung; they sing
hollow;

My strings and my bow
prove to me words are words.
Why then, do these phrases
showcase my soul?

My violin is my muse,
and I know it seems obtuse
to say that words are just words.
But I wish I could play for you all.

Then you'd see my soul
in crescendo...
                     Not simply this piece of the whole.

There are 10 kinds of people in this world,
and binary accounts for them all.

They're happy and sad.
They're ones and zeros.
Villains and heroes.
Villains, yet not all bad.
Despite everything life decides to hurl;
Despite every brick ball of fear
Through the stained glass windows of their minds,
Through it all, they survive.
They're angry and glad.
They're happy and sad.

And in their duality, they're still smiling there
at your sharp hasty words
at your venomous hurt
that you wish so desperately they, too, shared.