Something about the weather echoing my thoughts that makes me believe I belong to winter alone.

The meek raindrops dripping through the notched ceiling is the slow release of all the bottled-up agony and sufferings.

Darling, it is raining in my head as well tonight.

The startling gusts of wind against the windows are my bleeding fingernails pressed against a wooden door with no one to save me on the other side.

The deep, dark murmurs heard on an empty road are the humming voices inside my head that neglect and put down my efforts.

The voices have become amplified.

Those angry, screeching cat cries is my true voice finally finding itself after long seasons of quietness and despair.

Frustration now has a voice.

Umbrellas hold people hostage under their protection just like my pulsatile depression seems to like restraining me to my lousy bed.

What a fierce lover I've got.

This gentle nature-stirred madness has made its way fearlessly right onto my once-blue skies to shamelessly prove to me that I'm never alone.

I have come to realize
on this very first of a stormy winter night,
shivering alone at my stacked desk,
that our relationship is a childish defense mechanism.

We fool around, curse each other out.
We share secrets like no two best friends ever do.
We sing our soulless hearts out to rock bands
with suicidal guitarists, comfortably evading our feelings.

"What a childish defense mechanism!" I hear myself say.
I never once wrote poetry for you
for fear it might elope into something out of control.
I was not ready for that. I am not still.
And I'm yet unsure I ever will be.

But ******, I just had to get it down on paper for once.
And I detest being stuck in this hazy, grayish aura
of it never being truly white, but not really black either.

And my thoughts are mimicking the weather tonight,
cloudy and thunderous, yet utterly breathtaking.
I think I might love you one day just as much as I love winter.

They've got me boxed up in a situation
right after you've told me to pour my heart out to the world.
Even though you were a full-time robot,
nonetheless, a part-time daydream lover for me.

Three years gone and I still miss you.
I might still love you, darling, I do.
And when he asked me if I was over you,
I'm not sure whether I was trying to convince him or my own self by saying yes.

He is toying with me now, in ways you never would.
Somehow I let him, in an attempt to fill your void.
But my heart is heavy. God, I'm drained.
Three years gone, would you still have the energy to save me again?

Because they've got me boxed up in this situation,
and I cannot fathom how to get out.
I'm weaker than I thought, weaker than you thought.
I guess I'll be spending my entire life finding my way back to you.

How do you get over the past that has shaped you,
the past that has taught you how to feel, how to be?
I'm coming to grips now with the bitter fact that
you've become this dead part inside my living body
that I'd take desperate measures to merely revive.

I should stop being so ridiculously naive like that one time when I met a boy who bluntly admitted that he was too conceited and full of himself I didn't pay much attention to how true it was, thinking that he just wanted to impress me until it was too late. I got to him first. He became one of the cool kids. I was deserted.

I should stop being so ridiculously naive, believing that boys actually do fall for anything other than a fully made-up face, a heavy, talkative tongue with irrational words and meaningless sentences flooding out of lips, a ****-head with no thoughts of the universe, a statue with the appropriate body parts and long, shiny hair, and deceiving, shallow eyes.

I should stop being so ridiculously naive because for once, I thought, that this other boy who had trouble talking to me might like me back. He second-thought handshakes, hellos, but never eye contact. And when our eyes met, I could've swore he felt it as well. I fumbled with actually speaking to him. I could never get him alone.

I should stop being so ridiculously naive that one time, my best friend was that same guy's best friend and laughed about how we should get married one day since we're the exact opposite. She said I was sweet and calm like an impending storm. She said you were reckless like a hurricane. But oh, if only she knew you were the reason behind my silenced grieving.

(Yet my heart shall do as I command, soon.)

I should stop being so ridiculously naive because I realized that the boys I'm most comfortable with and so close to are the ones I don't write poems about and give much thought to. I should stop writing poems about you. I should be neutral towards you.

I should stop being so ridiculously naive and develop a solid personality and a loud opinion to stick with. I refuse to be a third wheel.

I should stop being so ridiculously naive and find my own voice because no one is going to speak up for me.

I should stop being so ridiculously naive and be thankful for the fact that there is no other me but me.

Fireworks and vivid chaos,
blinding lights in the pitch black sky.
The sudden gregariousness,
cross-dissolving into one's sigh.

Back home in a blanket,
hot chocolate in hand.
A wandering mind, hardly cognizant,
unleashing one's disguise.

With the shutter open
to evacuate life's scenes,
revealing only those broken
in one mind's eye.

Fading rapidly from awareness,
once immersive, now an indistinct sight.
The suttle gregariousness,
has all but gone dry.

I'll have my heart in a gift box wrapped in see-through,
embellished with flowers, dedicated to you.
I'll spread a smear of glitter on it, maybe a little gold too,
so it doesn't seem so bitter, so overdue.

I hope it's vivacious; if it was pumping still,
and with prudent words you would overkill.
Its liveliness--once, now long forgotten--will decay in your palms.
Daffodils and daisies will melt into your hands, betraying all qualms.

Being the human that I am, obliged me to always seek knowledge.
I loved everything. Everything was a wreckage.
The fact that humans can cause this much damage enlightened me,
yet the thought of persuing self-destruction further could never set me free.

I was distraught till I was numb to the bones,
paralyzed on the cold tiles, silencing my own moans,
because what future awaits those who are namely the sick-minded,
the delusional, the know-it-all, the blindsided?

For spectators like us, we set everything into action,
to those who are less fortunate; the earth is flattened.
Their ideas, their meticulous theorems and allegories would all be dispersed,
by those who ignited the fire from the beginning. By the universe. By us.

I do not know who I am and there's really nothing sadder than this,
especially when people are constantly questioning you about who you want to be and you don't know what to say or how to act.

I can hardly keep my thoughts together, I don't know how to put them in order. And I--
I am losing myself everyday as I give everything my utmost devotion,
only to find out that I have not been given any in return. 

At this hour of night, I feel empty and useless.
And it's probably true that this tear-stained sheet of paper I'm embedding my thoughts in will mean more to me than I ever did to anybody.

And it's sad because I could never blame them. 
There isn't a specific character that is outshining the radiance of others to love. 
There aren't anymore dreams, or hopes, or hobbies to hold on to. 

Everything is a lie. My entire being is a lie. 
I am caught at intersection point, 
attempting to busy myself by etching out words on the graveyard.

"Come be my savior."
You are not there, and you will never be.
You, my darling, are a lie as well. 

I am not able to kick, or writhe, or scream,
for I am trying to jot down what I'm thinking.
And sometimes when you don't know what you're thinking or why you're thinking,
you just remain completely frozen, with your breath ****** straight out of your lungs 
by those you love the most. 

I can never rely on anyone. 
Nobody cares about you no matter how much they state they do.
They are all a lie, too. 

I am immortal, and I am utterly dead.
I can hardly feel my fingertips at the touch of this pen 
as I am encompassed by a numbness so cold it burns.
For I am a lie, as well.

The girl with vintage dresses and flowers in her hair
is not as naive as you think she is.
With every toss of her satin-black locks,
she'll have you wrapped up around her finger.

The girl with red lipstick and flushed cheeks,
is not as shy as you think she is. 
She's disguising her thoughts; 
she's planning the entire universe in her head. 

The girl with a different book each day in her hand,
is already writing her own
with memories of those who have scarred her
and transformed her into 
the girl with vintage dresses and flowers in her hair
who now has the power to maneuver her way into your thoughts,
and **** you with nothing but a stare.

It has been alleged that repeatedly dwelling on the past
brings nothing but dysphoria and nostalgia to the soul
but so does worrying about the unknown future
and I am not one of those who are quite
efficiently capable at living in the
present, one day at a time.
I am left, destructed by
my overthinking
mind.

Tell me I'm not the only one who's a goner,
with controversial thoughts of the presence of
pure goodness within the most contemptible.

Tell me it doesn't seem so preposterous
that the greatest revolters could,
in some way, feel remorse.

Tell me that there at least might be
a glint of goodness in people
if you attempted to flounder them back and forth in your mind,
until everything repugnant, artless, and coarse fell away.

Tell me that maybe then a constellation may form
at the buttom of the pit,
a rare element ambushed in exposed bedrock,
that will be washed out and elevated by a fiery storm upstream.