i had to constantly remind myself of the way we all lived our own lives, and we each had our own veins and arteries, and we couldn't share everything like him and i did.
there were things that we all shared, like the same stars and the same sun, which we could admire when we were apart from each other,
but we couldn't give into sharing blood and heartstrings, sharing the power to control each others emotions, sharing seconds that turned to hours that continued onto months.
we had created an unhealthy system of burning each other out, we claimed each other as I'm yours, and you're mine, to the point that we looked back and were raveled into knots.  
i had to recall what i was before the entanglement, and scurry back to pick up pieces of myself i had left behind to be with you,
and now i rebuild myself everyday, telling myself no one completes me, we never needed each other, and i myself am whole, with no missing pieces.

the holes in me felt gaping like the darkness that i laid in, an indistinguishable black that could swallow everything around into nothingness.
and there i was, so afraid to feel again, remembering how "i love you" felt like a rush of blood to the head, and you used these feelings to pry holes into my being.
and here i lay trying to sew myself up, with no thimbles nor light, and i continue to poke myself and bleed

count the pages of words i have written over feelings that have turned into ashes, and find a number that is everlasting.
to look back at the words my mind could string together and knit into a pattern of infatuation and frustration, and remember everything threaded together for a reason, to create pieces of where i am today,
yet these pages keep forming, and they seem to be eternal,
fingers will yearn to write about the one who gives me the feeling music creates, about the steadiness i sit in, while watching everyone else bloom into seasons, about the lessons i'm learning that send chills down my skin, where i learn that people don't mean what they say, and barely say what they mean. when the value of words deteriorate to a playful game to keep one around, to twist definitions to please the mind and manipulate one another, to learn that the value of a phrase means nothing to one person as it does to the other.
i never wish to stop feeling and pouring, threading, and knitting,
for i know what my words meant in the moment and outside of it,
creating a touch of sincerity in the world of mixed emotions and illusions.

so i breathe freely again,
slipping back into my old flesh,
discovering the places of myself i had missed.

we untie the strings of our hearts in hopes we'll learn to tie each others tighter,
yet we end up in knots,
knowing each month will tie a little tighter,
thinking it will make us strong,
but before we know it we forgot what its like to be strong on our own,
and we are forced to unravel our knots,
but our strings have become tired, crimped and frayed,
and here i am splitting, into smaller pieces of what i was before

he told me to do what i did best, to stain pages with ink, to give chances to my words, to write as if i had never ceased to write for a year, after my creativity burst because i was enveloped in a world of warmth and his skin.
the only art i created was in chaos and newfound feelings of love, art was only there when i began with infatuations, and when the blinds were shut to block out the light of love.
i wouldn't know when was the next time i could spew out words, forming sentences that rolled off fingers and into my tongue, sending shivers of emotion down the spine i bend forward in times of burning fires, flames from peoples mouths sending your head into sparks and melting my being. trying to shield myself from the ashes of others, sticking onto my skin, clinging on. ashes of rumors and past words, ashes of mistrust and judgement, ashes of the thoughts people had when the saw me for the first time.
there was one thing that stopped the pain that caused writing to happen, and it was consistency with you.

These spills of ink tore the sheets of fantasy which wrapped my eyes from seeing reality. Splotches of heavy ink drops created pieces and problems I wish I could sew back together, repairing everything from the past. What I’ve come to realize is that each spill brought awareness into my life, giving me a new-found appreciation for things I would have never seen or discovered before. My life begins to form an impressionist painting, each dot coming together to form a beautiful life. Some pieces may not be pretty or meaningful on their own, but they each bring along a dot or more around to build a significant part of the painting. I am still under construction.

It always happened around two am, with the illumination of the moonlight seeping through the cracks of the blinds that could seemingly cover the sunlight but never the moonlight. The feeling of wanting to stitch tears back together. Tears falling, his sleepy voice questioning motives for crying. My reply, always “I don’t know.” It was everything all at once. A flipbook exposing every possibility of problem or memory, every significant, stitch able event. It was reality staining the once blank muslin pages with black ink, seeping into the fibers. Fantasy kicking, screaming, denying, tearing pages into pieces that would take eternities to sew.

in fifth grade, they taught us about slavery.
associating it with fields of cotton and colored skin scorching in the heat of the sun.
in eighth grade, we revisited the topic,
furthering it to studying the end of slavery, making us believe it never existed again.

no one taught us about what was happening in our backyards in present time,
because we were always too young,
or the topic too sensitive,
although we were the age target of this tragedy.

we were never informed about the thieves of innocence,
the ones who covered each square inch of skin with impurity,
while we sat in classrooms reading fairy-tales.
we were never informed on the serial killer of dreams,
the ones who indulged in corrupted fantasies,
shattering identities into nightmares that will keep them awake for years,
keep them trembling,
keep them flinching when hands reach out,
keep them fearing the ones who fall in love with them.
we were never aware of the slaves victims were made into,
applying definitions,
when they were more that just mere words,
more than just a collection of bones built to prize and conquer,
more than just a babe,
more than just a pretty face and a pair of legs,
more than just someone to quench satisfaction.

the moon could never keep his hands off the ocean.
for millions of years,
(at least that is what it seemed to be)
the ocean and the moon were in a very entangled relationship.
many couldn't comprehend it,
because their bond was so abstract,
and some appeared to derive the right answers,
with scientific reasonings to every complication .

the ocean never really had it figured out either,
she never planned for someone so distinct to make an entrance.
in the beginning, the moon was exciting, extravagant, exclusive,
and caused her to feel something new, which was a tide.
the ocean loved the movements of the tide,
they formed her once slow heartbeat into a melody,
the ups and downs, her constant change,
a dance with the moon was a thrill.

the moon enjoyed finally having a partner,
for he was alone, visited by only a few a year,
now he had the ocean,
the one he could twist and turn,
wrap around his fingers,
make her heart beat for him,
and only him, her obsession with new-found life,
of zigs and zags,
it was so different from her stagnant past.  

the moon saw the oceans vulnerable eyes,
falling in love with him and his assets,
his magnificence and glamour,
he began to take advantage, shaping her
into a sea of emotions,
a puddle of once shallow water,
creating depths of mile long darkness,
and the ocean proclaimed her love to the moon,
everyday praises and promises,
but tides began to be reckless,
trying to escape the moon was the hardest for her,
without him she'd be completely still,
a girl with no owner,
but they came from two different worlds,
differences that were incompatible,
polar opposites,
the moon receiving few visitors,
the reckless ocean, once safe,
year after year,
they choose to stay.

one hundred and ninety two hours
one hundred and ninety two hours where all i wanted to do was sleep
because in those moments,
you never existed in my dreams
you were not there to make my knees knock into each other
or my anxiety to pulse higher and higher
or worry of you becoming a screeching tea kettle over the phone
but also to make me feel like the butterfly that just opened her cocoon
and the little girl hugging her prized stuffed animal
or the core of your world

one hundred and ninety two hours
every single hour thinking about when is the next time
i can see emptiness
you're all around
and you still remain in my skin.

at age thirteen,
Picasso could surpass the talent of his teacher,
drawing at the level of Raphael, the prince of painters.
at age sixteen,
Picasso skipped his classes to explore gypsies,beggars, and prostitutes,
and at eighteen,
became exposed to anarchists and radicals who were artists and intellectuals
when his eyes were unveiled to a world of color, pinwheels of ideas, and a milky-way of lifestyles,
he unleashed a new form of art.
abstract, colorful, broken up into chunks, scribbles and slashes,
a child's coloring book,
from the five year old who couldn't seem to find the lines.

in this chapter of his life,
Picasso said:
It took him no time to paint like the prince of painters,
but decades to learn how to paint like the children.

one hundred and sixteen years later
i sit in the whirling emotions,
of the "i don't know yet"
and the "i have no idea"
and the "what am i going to do"
and the "why am i even doing this"
and the "who did i become"
and the "what will i be"
and the "who will i disappoint"
and the "honey you can't please everybody"
and the "what am i here for"
and the "is anybody out there waiting for me"
and "what capacity do i have to connect the constellations that form my dreams?"
and "what amount of this enormous world will i see with these mere two eyes and one small body?"
and "will i be the radical or the anarchist, or the artist or the intellectual, or the beggar or best of all,
the Picasso?"

and i can't seem to find the lines anymore
and everything is becoming a muddled mess of colors,
there is no symmetry, there is no balance,
there is not one face to a person,
there is not one specific meaning,
not one correct answer or distinction,
not a single definition.
and all though there are periods,
and I've been through the blue,
and I'm on the pursuit of the rose,
all i see is commas,
and as time goes on,
i understand more and more,
exposure to this world,
brings more questions and more blurs,
more pigments, and edges,
and adds miles from the distance,
of the lines.

carcomeindo mi corazon
llagrimas de llama
del fuego que incendias por adentro

algunos dias eres la abeja que da la nutricion a una flor
que es mi alma
algunos dias eres la mano que empuja el viento fuerte
que son mis emociones
algunos dias eres la luna que controlla la marea del oceano
que soy toda yo

un dia terminaras desmonarando mi corazon
pero te dejo el priveligo
mi lindo amor

she was the most draining thing i have ever known
arms made of paved streets, no potholes, no stories,
identical freckles aligned across her face
similar to zero-lot-line houses

clothed in green,brown,grey, no city billboard neon,
her breath was humid, her body radiated warmth,
her eyes resembled those photographs of the sea
her skin tan, rough, dry, grainy like beach sand

she would never leave, a tight grasp around your neck is what she felt like, her constant security of what will happen next, where we will go soon, like a body guard who told you that you could only go to two or three places. those who had the strange desire to be with her were lured by her blue eyes, the tan skin, and her constant "i'll be there for you"

she whispered ideas of smashing the window and running away,
or drowning in the bathtub
my first dictionary vocabulary oozing out of her glossy gossiping lips,
words of a braggart, spewing, spitting, sputtering on how beautiful, advanced, polished and intelligent she was,
when in reality all she was, was ***, drugs, blood, cuts, aluminum cans of alcohol, and suicide.

everyone was so into into everyone,
but the apathy towards each other outside the screen said otherwise

so i guess everyone was so into seeing everyone fall?
yes, that's it.
everyone wanted to see that the rest of the population had faults,
sometimes worse than their own, so they can be convinced that there is someone out there as bad as themselves

some simply yearned to get a taste of what those peoples lives were,
what secrets they held,
what things they've done

and here i too was pleading guilty,
but pride, or strength, or maybe morals
were weighing me down.
i did not need, but i so wanted.
the temptation of the dog-eat-dog world seeped into every one of our veins.

the fact that the whole world has so many individuals,
and each individual has their own story,
their own secrets
their own quirks

the number of grains of sand in the world
the number or stars in only the piece of sky above my rooftop

the fact there is so many things unknown,
yet so many things known

the number of unknown species available

how many gallons of water would it take to fill the ocean if it was drained?

my soul is a city
it looks like glistening sky lights, picturesque advertisements, and phosphorescent open signs
its sky contains twinkling constellations of stars hidden behind pollution and street lights
it has it's 5 o clock rush hours, 1 am parties, and 3 am sleepy time
it is divided into areas of charm, abandonment, and shabbiness
it holds crime, but there also innovation, prosperity, and thriving ideas
it is abided by eccentricity and idiosyncrasies
it is accepting of a variety of colors, beliefs, and characters
it holds unknown places, discovered by those who were willing to explore
it is visited by millions, but only some dwell, some leave an impact, some fall in love
and it is open for people to call it home

I could not take it any longer,
all i wanted was sleep, but that would be unhealthy
to sleep with all these thoughts, worries, anger, and sadness bottled up inside,
i don't know what to do anymore.
they always told me to stand up for myself,
to say something if i dislike whats going on,
to do what makes me happy.

its more like
stand up for God and religion and honesty
say something if its against christian morals or is ******
and of course, do what makes you all happy.

it makes me wonder how often you realize your contradictions,
your irrationality,
your irony,
and the fact that you don't even make sense at all.

so now,
do i chose what pleases you?
i'm stuck in a chasm,
and there is a ladder made out of mazes on the way out
my patience for mazes is not enough
i do not wish to stay

there are countless moments
when i know i could've done it
where i know i could've taken it
where i know there would've been an end
there are countless things i cannot say
things that would bring me to a basement
things that would bring me to the church
things that would make me seem crazy
things that they would never believe
things they'd be embarrassed about
things they'd be disappointed in

lately its felt really bad
everything is coming back
things i used to feel are reappearing
worse
worse
worse
worse
worse
its drowning and exploding all in one
i'm bursting with everything bottled up
a shaken bottle with carbonation boiling inside
spewing out every time

words aren't enough anymore
there is no escape

people who have the gift of sight are thankful for it, but are not kneeling down on ****** knees thanking God for such a beautiful gift of sight
if there was a way that i could thank God enough for sight, i want to know what it is.
i am beginning to appreciate all my senses but especially sight throughout these past three months
you may question what has happened
what did i see
what did i sense
what did i perceive
and i will tell you
but words cannot fully confess the magnitude
of beauty and love that i have discovered
when we sit down to think, we remember that the adjectives and words we use for emotions were created thousands of years ago and used to generalize feelings, and if i say i'm in love, you will never know what that means, because all humans love differently.
but i believe i have discovered my definitions of love and beauty, and they all pertain to you.
i never thought i would use the word beautiful to describe a boy, but that was the only way i could describe you, no other word matches up to what i think when i see you.
my eyes cannot drift away from the beauty of who you are, and while sitting there with movies on the screen i can't focus on because you're next to me, every moment i look at you i think to myself, i have found beauty.
i always questioned myself to what beauty was, what could beauty be defined as, where beauty can and cannot be found
and looking at you i am reminded of what it is
because you are pure raw beauty
a human who inside and outside is natural and real
who is effortlessly pretty, in every angle, emotion, or light.

vibrations echo inside my skin
prolonged tingles of worry along a bent back, i cradle myself to create warmth
eyes become redder than ever before, not under the influence of any substance
its more like the lack of someone which causes the redness
thoughts slither back and forth like ringworm chewing up my brain
coldness seeps throughout my body

the fear of being without the boy
the boy who fed her joy by the spoonful
the boy with veins that intertwined with graceful love and care that pumped with every heartbeat
the boy who made her believe that there was a possibility, a possibility to endless sunsets and sunrises
the boy who looked at her like she looked out for the sunrise, anxiously waiting at the windowsill for the colors that would never get old and whose beauty would never fade
the boy who she hoped would never fade away like the sunrise did

blood boiling
causes chills along my back
hairs rise along lanky arms
skin pale, eyes swollen and red
eyebrows furrowed, permanent expressions of hate and anger create wrinkles matching the set dad has
he's blind to the fact he's creating them on his little girl
pain is associated with the secretion of substance P, and is relieved by the secretion of endorphins
anger is associated to the spewing of your words and the sternness of authoritarian disciplines, and is relieved in a year, with college dorms and distance of 453 miles
or relieved in an instant by running away

it became frigid quickly, like aluminum street lights at negative temperatures
the cold seeps in throughout marrow, chilling bones and freezing thoughts.
i knew it was winter again and leaves were almost completely gone from the tree branches, each crunching words of remorse as they were stepped on once again.
she was confused, confused between psychedelic highs of happiness and freezing aluminum street lights who froze her fingertips when she touched them.
she asked herself why winter came now, when she had found the sunshine of her life, seeping through her for moments at a time.

you told me fear was an illusion made by the devil
to impair our lives and blur our vision
now all i see are flames of fear and my body is burning in temperatures of hell.
i never thought i would use the topic of drowning in a poem
i would always complain about the girls who wrote they were drowning in depression
when their serotonin levels were doing just fine
or the girls who said someone drowned them after breaking the lifeboat of love,
when they can pick themselves up if they use their muscles
but you are the reason i am drowning for the first time,
the cliche, stupid, senseless drowning topic,
you are drowning me in security and structure and formality
i am asphyxiating with security up to my throat, almost vomiting up words of rebellion because of constant confinement
i would rather drown in the ocean because i know there are treasures and unmet species, no restrictions.
i would fill my lungs with the mistakes you don't want me to make because it would give me substance
i would refuse to cough them up just so i could stay underwater without you shoving your beliefs down my throat
you are drowning me in repeating stories about mistakes that are not even mine, you are drowning me with rules, brain washing my mind.
you are stuffing stereotypes into my ears, talking about races, outer images and superficiality.
yes i know genesis and revelation, yes i know matthew, mark, luke and john, maybe you forgot how Luke wrote we shouldn't judge,
and i don't know if you remember how often you **** plants by over watering them.
i told you those plants were teenagers, they had to be left alone, you're drowning everything around you while getting water in your brain too, you're forgetting what its like to float,
probably because you never learned how to properly since you were a little girl
please don't drown me any longer
i don't want to drown people too

mom was always self conscious about her veins
she veiled them with pants in eighty degree weather, constantly looking for cures for varicose and spider veins and always asked me if she looked bad
mom never looked bad, not even mediocre. she was mom.
mom shone through with a holy radiance of giving, i knew that when she got to heaven (even if heaven was never real god would make a heaven just for her) she would be blessed and her veins would be erased.
i would write her a letter telling her how her veins were art on her legs with colors that were abstract for the human body
i would tell her i love the paintings on her legs because they reminded me of all she did for decades, tiring her feet, never sitting down, giving her self up for half hearted people.
i would tell her stories that her veins were paintings made by God to show her how unique she was, and he formed murals for her that would never go away, with lilac, violet and green paints that stained his fingers
i would remind her maps and magnificent cities had veins of their own, they were the roads and tunnels that people traveled on to find their destination.
my hope for her is that she remembers her flaws are art that don't have to be hidden in a museum

“I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.”
-Pablo Neruda

not in love, not in like, not in infatuation. just waiting for the same feeling Neruda had.

it was 7:42 in new york city, and we shared the same time zones, yet it was 31 degrees.
i knew new york would wait because places didn't change their mind about you and run away or fall in love with you. places became sedentary, the sunset came almost everyday at almost the same hour. the only difference was the people who admired it and the colors, ranging from your 5th birthday cake pink, to your old friends eye color blue, or your old soccer jersey orange. feeling infatuated with a place i didn't even know completely was familiar to me because i became infatuated with people distant from me. i don't know if it was a defense mechanism so i wouldn't get hurt by the ones closest to me, or if it was because i was allowed to make up a false identity of them in my head. the unknown was the only thing i craved for. but the unknown can become the known and the question floats above my head, will i still love the unknown once it becomes known? is everything an illusion and a figment of imaginations, turning into whirlwinds of crazy infatuations? i need to find the truth, but new york is so far, and everyone unknown shook me, made me wonder, tremble, spin round and round into confusions and questions. there was an unknown that was near, from a saturday night, from 6:30 pm, January, that i was sure about. the curiosity leads to an array of questions i can only answer if i approach the unknown.

nobody was who they claimed to be anymore
they changed, mostly rotted
everything is rotting and i wanted to run away
i did not want to become expired at this age,
decomposed into an attitude of egocentricity and midnight humor,
i did not want to ridicule those around, spewing venom consistently
making someone feel less and causing them to decay
i wanted to love everybody despite their capacities, their intelligence, their attitude
i did not want the trend of hating the human race
i cannot stand "i hate everyone but myself" anymore
its time to put an end
i refuse to live my life with negative energy hovering around swelling me up into a mound of stress and forehead wrinkles

hear me out
i need to leave
don't rot me too

and in that moment the wattage of the light bulbs died with one last flicker of energy, and the sun set like the days in autumn when it was pitch black at 5:30. I was still fog and he was still a light bulb, shining pretty for another girl. fog was yearning for a chance to ascend once again and become a cloud, her last hope in becoming meaningful. she wished to carry rain drops to heal droughts and move to display sunshine

i believe the reason you are alone is because you need to be alone
you are living in a the box of loneliness only peering through the cracks to see when your time will come
when you should be staring at the walls figuring yourself out in the silence that is so golden
you are seeing this as such a curse but it could be a hidden blessing.
for you cannot coexist properly if you cannot coexist with your flesh and soul.
this loneliness is whispering to use him for something else other than moping because he is beautiful and practical
God is giving you this time because he knows you need to learn to love yourself
you are not ready yet because you are not capable of treating these blessings properly without peace within you.
you cannot love if you barely love yourself
this time is for caring for yourself, laying by the window and cleaning yourself up like the house cat
be still
it is coming

after 8 days in a place where my name was unknown i am convinced that i need to leave.
not leave this earth, just leave this town.
i needed to go to a city, something like nyc, los angeles, chicago, london, or miami.
i figured out why, because i need to be alone.
yes of course, this sounds so silly, a city is full of millions of people and you are practically enclosed in a shell of other peoples skin and encapsulated by human noise.
but the city has that thing about it, everyone is alone. you are anonymous.
you will not see the same girl who whispered curses at you in her brain at the coffee shop and the same curious boy who would not take his eyes off of you on the subway.
in order for that, you would need to push yourself to talk to them if you would like to see them again, and you would dare to speak out so you don't loose opportunity.
you wouldn't think, "i'll talk to him next time i see him around."
you will not hear rumors about the girl at the coffee shop or meet her friends and be a part of their life. you could shake her off and never see her again and again.
people were fast paced and running,
city dwellers do not live in family sized homes, they usually came alone or in pairs to chase dreams they are hungry for.
i needed that time alone.
when i had that time, i could figure myself out, discover what i want, plan, meditate, think, breathe my own polluted air.
i needed that.
its why i stay up past midnight while everyone at home is asleep, its the only time i get alone and the city shifts a little closer to me.

i was doing fine
fine as in
nothing at all
doing nothing at all

things felt settled down yet unfinished,
kind of started and then left there
like a puzzle a child started to solve but never came back to because he got distracted
new people came into the room
breathed new air into my lungs
which allowed me to expel the old air of old friends and old people
(old as in, i'm able to get tired of you, not old as in wrinkles, though they caused wrinkles too, like smile lines and crows feet, sometimes those hundred elevens between your eyebrows too)

i sit patiently because i feel something coming
i see something rising
i feel as if there's a whisper of the big man
telling his daughter to wait patiently and follow him in the pastures he planted
the city and art will come along as well as the people who breathe new air into me
goosebumps rise along lanky arms as i think about the new dawn
a new life is soon
maybe soon as in three years
maybe soon as in the man's three years which convert to three minutes or seconds
i don't know
but i'm willing to wait

two hundred and eighty seven hours
i have two hundred and eighty seven hours and one minute
to convince myself to open my mouth and mind
because i was not going to let myself lose an opportunity  
which is what i do as often as the sun sets

the only thing i can think of is how the first time i saw you
i remember thinking that maybe the cliche stories of love at first sight (that were as believable as a man claiming he has never sinned) were actually true.
the smoke rises and the lights come out and the vibrations in the room raise and all i want is for you to hold me like the girl that is in your hands right now
and all i get from you is a step on my jazz shoe and a look on your face that speaks "i'm sorry" and then a smile of 100 watt light bulbs

and i think about how light bulbs come in different shapes in sizes, and we are both the curly q bulbs with twists and turns and heads of curls
but we never were too daring with using too much energy and didn't make much noise

i needed to know you like the man needed to reach the moon
like the woman needed to find a perfect shoe
(unnecessary in reality, but extremely important in their mind)

now there's two hundred and eight six hours and forty three minutes
until the wattage dies and the sun will set

I cannot tell you how I feel because the girl in the pictures is in the way.
All the other people that left shards of glass and metal incisions in my self confidence were also in the way.
most importantly I don't know if this feeling flows both ways
It shakes me in plenty of ways but it is better than the results of past confessions that left me screeching into pillows and burying my face into my knees

(past problems present effects, 10 pm)

"at that point, i don't really know what i felt. it was not invisibility nor visibility. i felt like i was floating in the unnoticeable, kind of there, kind of not there fog. Fog is clouds that were supposed to be up high and exalted, but somehow they are brought down. Fog is unreasonable, with no practicality and almost good for nothing. i guess that's what i was too."
-(midnight narrations in October)

you are no longer the one plus one i dreamed of or the cure-all to my pains and you are no longer motivation in my veins
i have steered clear because you are a caterpillar with a cocoon brain (underdeveloped, unraveled, closed up and shriveled)
you are not the glorified person i thought you would be, i put you on a pedestal of faux gold that qucikly rotted and tarnished with the truth
you are not the knight in shining armor and you are not the boy that will change my life and go to the forest with me.
your freckles have turned into specks on the windshield that annoy you when you cant see and your eyes have turned into piercing lasers that are the only temptation left in you
maybe i have changed my vision from far sighted to near sighted and now i only see you up close and personal , clear as daylight.
you need to check yourself, reevaluate yourself, validate yourself, so you can decimate all these condescending thoughts of who you are and who you are pretending to be.
the butterflies you swat around from side to side and up and down are not toys and have very delicate wings as well as fragile hearts.
these butterflies are not choices, don't act like you don't know they're swarming around you because of who they think you are and your sweet nectarine temptation
you cannot pick and choose and play with wings until they break and then feel sorry after.
my preconceived notions of who you were and what we could be were as wrong as 1492, when the world was perceived flat
now i see the three dimensional you

it's quite cliche to say, but i noticed you before you even knew I was an existing being with veins and arteries that pumped blood faster in sight of you.
in the busted up little heart of mine I always wished you could notice me too because i felt something was in you that made me feel as if i were rising, ascending into clouds with millions of silver linings.
now that you know my name and I know what it sounds like coming from you lips,
i am captivated by you and your speckled face, your burning eyes, your irrelevant jokes and strange mannerisms.
but captivity means being confined and imprisoned too, and that's exactly how i feel about you.
you are the sunflower that bees depend on and love,
and i am the naive bee trapped inside,
and i'm trying to make you realize how much you mean to me, and how i glorify your being in a way that i shouldn't, because you are just a sixteen year old boy fleeting from commitment,
and I am a bee chasing after your non-existent pollen

coffee breath, lead stained hands, fingers numbly typing in numbers that have more value than my test scores,
numbers stab like axes cutting down trees that cry in silent screeches in the forest.
numbers like ninety seven, ninety, and eighty two.
numbers that will never define who i am on a college transcript
and these numbers are worth more than who i am in this world, since we are defined by numbers today
even though we made the same mistake in 1939, turning people into numbers by stabbing pigments into their forearms, creating a lesser value for them.
a forty eight is stupid and a fifteen percent is like a hollow head.
i am defined by numbers like fifteen and forty eight and i am told that i should be embarrassed of who i am, or for the number that i am.
and if an equation can't be solved," i'm sorry m'am you cant move on", because your capacity is again,
defined by a number.
i am not a number
i am not the forty eight or the fifteen that scratches the back of my eyeballs like nails filing down a chalkboard.
i am not the one forty five i sleep at when ripping my hair out trying to solve equations of irrational numbers when i should be solving the equations of my irrational thoughts
and everything is turning round and round and round like the infinite possibilities of solutions to equations,  
and i go to sleep, and lay my head down as early as possible, but my mind is running in circles with numbers taunting me and defining me and interrupting my sleep.
it is morning now, my mother comes and checks on me to see how i am in this "new wonderful day"
the tiredness seeps through my purple eye bags that i try to cover with tan makeup, and i think about how i really feel in the morning. i stare in the mirror and numbers stare back, i weep as i sit on the floor with the numbers streaming down my eyes, evacuating them from my system, because numbers have made me mentally insane.
there is no hope of numbers leaving because they carry through, even after algebra two,
weight and credit scores, and the amount of money you owe in debt, your mortgage payment, and the amount your retirement fund has swallowed up for your uncertain future,
i am not a number
i am not a number
and i will fight numbers off like the moon controls the tide,
the tide will never control the moon,
and numbers will never control me.

In outer space, there are 10 particular stars that are the brightest. They are part of important constellations that people search for their whole life by name. The brightest star is Sirius, because of its magnitude.
You are my Sirius.
I searched and searched and searched millions of constellations, looking for the brightest star and I found you.
I am like the regular stars of the universe which do not contain such a spectacular magnitude and would never be able to reach the superiority of Sirius.
You Sirius, are the kind of boy someone would write a book or produce a movie about, because you are literally a star.
At least ten girls in school admire you because of your magnitude and your being, and maybe they sit there and write about you too.
I've been searching for you my whole life and here you are in front of me, for at least two hours of a day.
I don't know what to do now that you're so close and I don't want to ***** up. I wish my intelligence could be enough for you, but Sirius, you are the brightest of them all, and there are brighter stars out there that admire you.
there are less skinny,less lankier stars that stare at you
there are more brilliant, smarter stars that yearn for you
there are stars that don't laugh like an asthmatic,
there are stars that have themselves in order and know where they are going and what scholarships they will receive because of their brilliance.
man, i may be the most annoying, stick skinny, unintelligent, asthmatic star out there, but at least i perceive you as my Sirius. **no other star sees you brighter than how blindingly bright i see you.

don't you think it's completely wrong to tell a girl she is being "way to much of a girl"
don't you think its merely disgusting to tell someone they are way too happy
and isn't time you stopped being bitter for the sake of other people laughing when you can barley crack a smile

see I've been there, done that and comments have come and go,
and everyone seems to tell you to be a woman.
to be prim and proper,
to have the posture of a princess and the mouth of a doll
(see because dolls only talk when you make them and the only words that escape their mouth are the ones you want)
everyone tells you to take that frown that takes so many more muscles to produce and turn it into some fake smile and laugh every single moment off as if the world was your oyster,
(which i never understood, because who likes oysters anyway?)

and now you see, i took the worlds advice and now look at me, being criticized left and right and left and right once again,
just for being what i was taught to be when i was a tomboy with dirt under my nails and basketball shorts over my knees and hair slicked back in a braid
for laughing about things i would've never found humorous when i would cry almost every day over some vacuous boy who I invested my fickle heart in (but from that experience i learned not to believe someone when they say those three words that are commonly overused in a fourteen year old's dictionary of phrases)

and now before you spew out venom from your mouth which is connected to your pea sized brain,
i suggest you to replay the little broken record inside your brain promoting the anthem of "self love and no self deprecation, you are beautiful just the way you are! you deserve to be happy!" before you tell anyone that they need to stop laughing, stop being such a woman, and stop being so happy.
think before you teach.

coffee breath,
9:42,
violet pigment under eyes,
tiresome sighs.
three hours and forty- one minutes of sleep,
my mind says no,no,no,no
my eyes are heavy
and so is my mood

heart sunken deep as eye bags
wondering if you actually care.
those blue-green eyes,
are they analyzing my feelings,
or algebra?

i just want you to feel the same way,
which is a way i have never felt before

mushy, gushy, stupid poems,
hopeless, delicate Juliet searching for Romeo in her peripherals

little Juliet, wake up, wake up,
go be the lioness you're accustomed to be

Ants on my windowsill
Electric vibrations of music playing
Sounds of motors outside
The feel of blood flowing through my legs

I feel everything more beautifully
It's only been less than a week
But flowers have started growing in dark places
And all that I can think about is you you you

I started using blue ink more often
because it reminded me of your eyes
which quickly became my favorite in school
along with your constellations of freckles
which adorn your joyful looking face

I wake up at 5:35 happy because i'll get to hear your voice at 9:32
for now i'll stare at blue ink and think of you.

when you think that there's no one else left for you in the world,
do not dare to give up.
remember you live in a small town,
and out of that small sleepy town,
you may know merely one-fifth of the population.
one day he or she will appear in the most unexpected place.
and you will find beautiful people you would have never imagined or fathomed,
you'll be so amazed because you never thought someone like that actually existed near you.

one day you'll look up and then distract yourself so they won't see your jaw drop in the presence of them,
and you'll stare so frequently, but you'll strive to look further than their physical appearance, because you've never seen someone as beautiful before.
you'll search and find that despite their beauty they are a person just like you.
your heart races when you exchange looks
and you find the most intricate details of them alluring
but then just like that,
the masterpiece of a stranger has to leave,
but he lives on in my mind for hours,
and lives in these words forever.

knowing there are so many beautiful people out there waiting to be met is what keeps me going.
I want to know them all.
I hope one day I will be someones beautiful stranger

The moment you notcied me was something of a dream,
something I would never expect,
becasue I was a mere moth in a garden of iridescent butterflies.

You woke me up at 6am on a summer morning, my oh my,
what a miracle, you worked a wonder,
you left your number,
so I left mine, and the dream froze.

Now I've been awake,
(the kind of awake where you have to stick toothpicks in your eyes to pry them open)
searching for signs of you everywhere.

The thing I want most is for that little blue light to appear so I know that we're both constantly pathetically thinking about each other.
I'm to shy to talk to you first,
and maybe you're sitting there too,
staring for the light on your phone,
like gatsby staring at the green light,
debating if its way to soon to text.

Please do, I don't want to be gatsby, staring for the light,
I want to have the privilege of seeing the light often
don't be afraid.

*12:21 the light hasn't appeared. Please think of me

He saw himself in her eyes suspended in two shining drops of bright water, everything was there as if her eyes were two miraculous bit of violet amber that might capture and hold him in tact.
Her face, fragile milk crystal with a soft constant light in it. It was not the hysterical light of electricity, but the strangely comfortable and gently flattering light of a candle.

For how many people did you know who refracted you own light to you? People were often blazing away until they whiffed out.
How rarely did other people's faces take of you and throw back to you your own expression, your innermost trembling thought?

Autumn leaves blew over the moonlit pavements in such a way as to make the girl who was moving there seem fixed to a sliding sidewalk, letting the motion of the wind and leaves carry her forward.
Her shoes stirred the circling leaves.
Her face slender and milk-white, and in it was a kind of gentle hunger that touched over everything with tireless curiosity.
Pale surprise with dark eyes that were so fixed to the world that no move could escape. Her dress was white and it whispered.He almost thought he heard the motion of her hands. Eyes so dark and shiny and alive that he felt as if he had said something wonderful.
They walked in the warm-cool blowing night on the silvered pavement and there was the faintest breath of fresh apricots and strawberries in the air. her face as bright as snow in the moonlight.
"I like to smell things and look at things, and sometimes stay up all night, walking, and watching the sunrise."
He saw himself in her eyes suspended in two shining drops of bright water, everything was there as if her eyes were two miraculous bit of violet amber that might capture and hold him in tact. Her face, fragile milk crystal with a soft constant light in it. It was not the hysterical light of electricity, but the strangely comfortable and gently flattering light of a candle.
For how many people did you know who refracted you own light to you? People were often blazing away until they whiffed out. How rarely did other people's faces take of you and throw back to you your own expression, your innermost trembling thought?

*"Are you happy?"

you didn't care to read my poetry
you didn't care to know my favorite song
or know my favorite book

you didn't care to know anything about me at all
except my face
my lips
and my body

all you wanted was physical affection,
no mental connection

that's precisely why I chose to leave

I couldn't walk past the coffee shop we visited
and walk through the isles of our local bookstore
without your name screeching through my head
like acrylic nails on a chalk board

I thought i'd never heal
I thought i'd never forget
but now it's been a full year

and I couldn't remember that your favorite artist was Bon Jovi
and you smelled of shaving cream
and you hated the taste of coffee because it was bitter (similar to you)
and I almost forgot about your stretch marks that were a terrible insecurity, even though you're a boy.
I almost forgot about that Coldplay song, Strawberry Swing.
I almost forgot that your favorite color is green,
and you had an undying relationship with music,
which was always in your ear.

all these things used to cause me to cringe
until the day i forgot them,
and they came back,
but now you're forgiven and i'm almost completely healed.

you're the wound that caused
terrible bleeding and an itching scab
that I would peel off and cry about
but in the end you left a wonderful scar
that will bring back good memories

you're forgiven

Summertime last year
I remember nothing but rain
nothing but tears
nothing but shame

headaches
long winded text messages
and tantrums of pain

I learned that out of every terrible situation
comes that silver lining
that the wise folks talked about

poetry came flowing into my veins
my words began to create something
that was definitely better than what I could ever say

poetry began writing about heartbreak and suffering
those cliche poems of being angered with that one boy
the basic writes of "drowning" and "falling"

but poetry nursed my pain
poetry opened my eyes
cracked open my brain

into another world,
another way of thinking
into something i enjoyed at every hour of every day

I began to feel free
unconfined and confident
talented and useful

soon flowers bloomed
the rain cleared up
the clouds moved out

I began to write about the beauty in life
the beauty all around
the things people miss
the metaphors people never realized

poetry and poets have nurtured my brain
your beauty radiates throughout the world and my life
and shines through me everyday.