I'd like to drink true
and bold
and fearless
and honest,

instead they tell me to bottle it up.

I'd like to breath easy
sleep steady,
smile
drink more
and sigh at a sight-

but instead I'm just foolish.

I've been told it is wrong since forever,
and have tried my hardest to drink
only the freshest wine-
like all the other people my age do,
but I cannot.
It results only in my lying,
Faking emotions I could never have,
pretending to like the pure taste.

I've never seen a problem with it,
but
Not only do they say it is wrong-
it is illegal.
It hurts my soul, for now,
but soon, just a year, I'll be free to love and drink
aged wine the same as I do now,
only with less scrutiny.

I'll be free to be held in public with few judging eyes,
I'll drink unto it
and it will drink into me.
and the brief
secretive moments of passion
that have always stayed hidden that people say is wrong
can end-
and cautiously enter where the sun's rays pour.

I have my eye on a fine bottle of wine,
it gets better with age,
they tell me I shouldn't,
taking a drink would be wrong,
I've only had sips-
but soon
so soon,
I'll have a glass.

No means no,
not right now means no,
stop means no,
silence means no,
lack of consent means no,
anything other than yes means no.

It makes me sick
and it turns my face red
and I can't think
when I hear about him.

When I hear about how great of a guy he is
and how it's only alcohol that turns him into
the monster that I see him to be always.
In sobriety he makes me just as sick.
Anybody that takes with asking,
that doesn't listen,
that feels entitled to *** when it is denied,
makes me sick
and should be hung,
should be shot,
should be ****** on
and torn apart limb from limb.

Boys will be boys is not an excuse,
alcohol is not an excuse,
ignorance is not an excuse.

There is no excuse;
a bullet for every ******.

She was only a little girl when it happened.
Only a child.
The world shattered around her,
a void opened up
as her throat closed.

Her body limp,
eyes blank,
struggling to see the good in the world,
to cling to the smallest bit of magic left.

She was only a little girl when it happened,
she was only a child
when she was forced to grow up.

Maybe it's time to grow up,
the fantasy world I've been hiding in
is killing me,
there's hardly anything left,
just an empty shell
for a heart
that once beat true and blue,
or did it ever?

I try to convince myself I'm special,
I can do something great
that I'll leave this **** town
and not be as poor as the ***** who raised me,
that I'll be somebody,
that I'll be loved-
I'm not looking for a fairytale
I'm just looking for a way out.

I've spent too much time
cowering in my books
and spells
and Doctors and demon hunters
and wizards
and zombie-slayers
--but it's been so long since
I've written something I could be proud of.
It's been so long since my imagination
has brought me euphoria,
since my eager anticipation
of the impossible
has granted me talent
to write a story
to bring readers to tears...


I guess I'm growing up.
Shaking solemn hands
with a childhood
thats lasted too long.
good.
maybe now I can die.

I walked in and saw a pair of shoes.
I thought nothing of it,
and went away.
Later, again,
the same pair of shoes.
Those shoes sat down-
blank pants-
I linger long and heard her breath,
building up the courage to ask if she's okay,
"Yeah" a quiet voice cracks.
she's not okay
she's hurting, sick maybe,
but she seems so sad.
She doesn't need me to get anyone
and when it comes to wishing her well
"yeah" is all that I hear.
"Yeah" filled with a quiet torment.

I only saw her black shoes
and skinny black pants.
curled up in the largest stall,
to think I had gone in
feeling sorry for myself
feeling miserable
there to check the mirror
to see if I still look as
disgusting as I think I do,
and there she is,
black shoes
black pants
curled where nobody would notice.
I know that voice
I know that breath,
the tears, by now,
would be stale on her face.
I went away
but still her sad black shoes
patted sad footprints on my heart.

I remember this awful book I read once
about a year ago.
I can't remember the title but it was one of those terrible tragedies
revolving around young love.
But of course, it's a tragedy so everybody dies unhappy
and without love.
The reason I am thinking of it is because it is snowing and the entire setting of the book is covered in snow.

I had a day dream about you earlier today, in class.

We walked down the streets of some nondescript town covered in snow.
We looked behind us every so often at the zigzagged tracks we left behind us, as if they were following us, not ready to part.
After a while of walking we wandered into a cafe and sat in the window seat.
On the window we drew flowers out of the condensation.
We laughed as we sipped our hot chocolate and from a bag you produced a very nice woolen scarf, which you gave to me, and from my coat pocket I produced a very nice woolen beanie, which I gave to you.

I hope this isn't brash
and I hope this isn't obtrusive,
it's just that I've been wanting to tell you for some time
how very pretty you are.
Every time I think I have worked up the courage to do so, I cannot.
I think my daydream is a spawn of my yearn to tell you what I think
and thus this was born.
Call it poetry, prose, or whatever you like
but the truth is that this is communication
in it's most simple
and most complicated form.

I remember now, the book was called Ethan Frome, and it wasn't all that bad.

My favorite memories of you are completely made up. I lie there for hours in the dark, eating tuna sandwiches and reading your poetry, imagining that each girl you wrote about was me. We've gone on amazing adventures and late night walks and did lots of drugs, until my cat jumps on my lap and reminds me that I'm not adventurous, not nocturnal, and definitely not a druggie. I've cried into your shoulder till I fall asleep, and then I wake up alone. We had a terrible fight, at least, on my lined paper smudged with ink. It may sound weird to you that I imagine our life together, but I'm so lonely and you're so safe and I can't stand not being with you, even if it's an alternate reality. I just hope that one day it could all be real.

She walks with confidence.
She's the most beautiful girl here
and she knows it.

But she is lonely.
She has nobody to touch
and she yearns for it.

She is a writer.
Her pen graces paper
and she owns it.

There are so many things to say about her.
Her confidence, her beauty, her talent, her voice,
and I welcome it.

A purple liquid drips
and with each drop the sound of discontent grows louder.
     Forming a puddle on the the carpet that grows and grows and grows
and soon I will drown in it, soon I will drown in her.
     Soon, her green eyes will be all I see and not just all I yearn to see.

The purple liquid
creates an audible thump as it splashes down on the carpet which is now covered with an inch and a half of the stuff.
     The thump makes it easier to sleep at night; it slows my heartbeat.
Her lips whisper to me as I sleep and I long for them to be upon my neck.
      My fingers grasp the sheet but in my mind they are running through her hair and down her back.

Now, my bedroom is filled with the purple liquid, only two feet of air separating the ceiling and the top of the purple swimming pool.
     As I sleep, she sleeps with me and as our fingers touch
she exhales a blast of the cool purple liquid.
     Without cease it fills my lungs and her whispers grow fainter
and her touch sweeter.