Everyone is staring
You're trying so hard to stay standing
But your heart is racing
Instead of walking straight
You start wobbling

Your eyes begin to strain
You start feeling as if you just gained a lot of weight
Your heart sinks as you run away
You have to hide

You musn't let them see
The you that is scared to be seen
You feel like you can't even breathe
Your lungs are tightening
As you sink down against a wall
and take into the fetal postion

Just cry, maybe someday it'll be alright.

Now we say, we love each other
as in forever so,
and though we are young
in 7 years years
I am sure it will show,
that sweetheart
you are my forever
and I love you,
I love you so,
I'll love
you always.

In the musty crypt.
Beneath the Norman church.
In the old town.
Orleans.
'Tis said.
Hangs a deep red tapestry.
An old gas lamp.
Stands in the corner at the end.
Currently unlit.
Curious.
Considering , you the intruder can smell the wick of  recently extinguished gas.
You feel your way round.
Fighting the darkness.
You hold in your rigid hand a torch.
A plastic battery operated one.
Hidden secrets revealed.
An antiquated niche.
Carved out of the cold wall.
It hides a long abandoned tea stained book.
Itching to take a look.
Edging silently forward in a nervous state.
The dark and dust are choking you.
Your ears peeled, by your own fear.

A shuffling sound,
The dragging of the owners feet.
They're scratching.
Apparently, the owner's completely unaware.
Of your inadvertent space invading.
It's his space you're invading.
He knows you're there.

Ushered to the coffin edge.
Encouraged on by his bony finger.
Petrified.
He grabs your wrist.
Aiming your torch inside.

Inside the coffin.
Lay a mere chess set.
Made of shiny green marble.
The bare bones.
Made the first move.
You were to be his latest pawn.
From out of the gloom.
A booming voice was heard to say.
"All hallows eve".
"I'm glad you came, I so hoped, a playmate would join me today."
(C) Livvi

What the **** am I doing
Alone and zoned
Music playing to make noise in the background
The artful expression aiding me
To believe that I want to do something I have no intention of doing
Write, write, write
Why?
Why must I write?
How do I feel the feeling of needing to write?
All I know is I must write,
Is accidentally double clicking Word the sign
Or is my random outbreaks all combined
Is it the alcohol talking
Or my fingers ancey attitude
Either way words are coming out
Nonsense or not, people will say “wow, I liked it”
While in my head I say “you’re full of ****”
Who will be the one to say its garbage
And not because I wrote about my intentions,
But truly believe it is garbage,
This is not really a poem, its my mind releasing emotion through my finger tips
Is that so terrible?
Maybe another sip will have the answer,
Maybe two?
Where is this going, what does this mean
Why must I type?
Why must I be me?
Why must I feel to write
Who am I trying to please?
Me or society?
My friends will love me either way, my talents only increase their love
But is that the reason behind why people write
Or do they feel the words fall in place
Do they feel the art slip off the edge of their finger nails
Being a wordsmith is nearly a craft
As one must be able to adapt and shape words into places unseen
The unheard of is only what gets glory,
Those who receive it are recognized for their ability to truly be creative
Creative in a way no one has before,
But am I doing that right now?
Really at the end of the day this poem isn’t for anyone,
I’d shy from calling it a poem,
It’s a memoir for my memory from my mind
The mind that can’t sit still for further than 5 seconds,
Sue me