Don't be depressed.
That's difficult.
One cannot fathom the agony that is
exposing your heart
then having it wounded.

I sink further within my shell
because I fear more pain.
The winters of my soul are long.
When shall I see Spring again?

Here's to the crazy ones,
who talk to the thoughts they entertain
and have a heckuva time, all the time.

Here's to the broken ones,
who hide scars behind plastered-on grins
and are reluctant to ask for help.

Here's to the lovers,
who crave affection from another
and are endlessly mending a shattered heart.

Here's to the artistic ones,
who see beauty in everything
but are considered quirky, as a result.

Here's to you,
for being unique and special
but never changing for anything.

Really, it takes moxie to be a fool.
To act obnoxious on purpose,
it honestly seems to be a trend.

People, c'mon, this can all be avoided.
After all, you do have brains in your skulls.
They're good for something, I promise!

Someday you'll understand.
Or perhaps you'll make a major mistake
and (ironically) learn from it.

Ice creeps slowly into her veins,
gradually encompassing her being
  in a layer of frost.  
Hues of blue constrict her soul, and shine like sapphire prisms behind her eyes.
She wishes to only reach out
and clasp the hand of someone warm,
  attempt to stave off the bitterness.
But because she is so frozen,
none dare approach her with warmth.
They only turn a blind eye, letting her suffer.
Could you be the one to ease her suffering?

I'm not closed off because I don't like people.
I'm not reserved because I've been hurt.
I simply am the way I am
  because I don't want to be wounded.

In a world full of liars, cheats and snakes,
  I am a human of great depth and sensitivity.
Should I dare expose my soul's deepest workings
  I know someone will abuse it, ruin it.

So don't turn your nose up at my behavior.
  I'm not looking to be hurt because of who I am.
I'm guarded because I am deep, not because I'm rude.
Please, don't look down on my silence.

Mortality is like a weight, suspended on a string.
It remains balanced and constant
until Fate takes that string between sharp iron blades
and permits it to come crashing violently down.

Our lives teeter on the edge of metaphoric clock hands.
With one motion, they will fall and we will end.
Life is fragile, like the most delicate of porcelain dolls.
A sight to behold, until it is broken and tossed out.

Even as we live, we gradually fade away.
With each passing second, a new nail is driven into our coffins,
and another shovel's scrape prepares our graves.
Ready or not, it will come, and we will have to face it.

It's early, and I shouldn't be awake.
But here I am.
Thinking.
I long for my thoughts to stop swirling.
I don't want to see the one who haunts my deepest ponderings.

But at the same time, I do.
They're beautiful.
Everything about them intrigues me.
I would explore the depths of their heart
if only there was time.  

Oh, why must they do this to me?
Deprive me of blissful sleep.
Invade my mind so constantly.
Make me restless until the dawn.

I may be insane for saying so,
but I don't want this insomnia to end.
It's a wonderful side effect
of the drug known as love.

I don't understand.
You finally found a girl to pursue who isn't me.
I should be overjoyed.

Then why can I not shake the taste of blood in my mouth?
I'm happy for you.
But perhaps, I'm not happy for me.
I want you to be happy.

But will she bring you the kind of happiness you crave?
I doubt it.
Youthful love is about as foolish as it comes.
You've made this mistake before.
Many, many times.

I'm losing faith in you.
You're foolish for thinking she could be strong enough,
and willing, to bear your multitude of crosses.

But hey, I'm just a friend.
What do I know?
Evidently, I know not enough to please you.

I know in time, give it a month, maybe
and you'll be back at square one.
Alone, and in pain.
I'll be there.
Waiting to pick up the pieces of your shattered heart and build you up.
Again.

I couldn't really help myself;
I just sort of gave in.
Your lingering, devilish smirk,
lit a fire that burned me from within.

I practically swooned upon hearing
My name fall from your lips.
If I tried, I could almost feel
those hands wrap around my hips.  

But I shouldn't want you, should I?
You're not the one for me.
  Maybe we could give it a shot,
  share a little eternity.  

You can break my heart when you tire
  of me and how I treat you.
  After all, in the end,
  we're only doing as lovers do.

The queen of hearts
did make some tarts
On a bright summers day.
The knave of hearts
stole those tarts.
Took them quite away.

He took the embezzled tarts
to a lovely three of spades,
whose smile made his day.
The queen of hearts    
had learned the truth
and her heart was torn apart        
over a knave full of youth.

Brimming with anger
the brokenhearted queen
ordered the ******
of the knave who loved another.
If he did not love the queen,
his head would careen
and topple from his neck.

And so it did.
And the queen of hearts was made heartless.

The rain comes down on the city,
white clouds now grey and overcast.
I find relaxation and solace
in the rain that has come at last.

I press my cheek to the window,
peering through the glass,
and view my dewy reflection
as the soil-bound droplets pass.

I feel bad for those who whine
about the pouring rain,
for as it drums against the ground,
it's like the earth is born again.

Some might say that love is stupid, a farce-
"such feelings are untrue, and none too real."
However, when a connection does spark,
how great is the emotion one does feel!

To love and be loved is kindling a flame,
one which burns bright, ever-present and true-
a pure fire smoldering, one and the same-
in the twin hearts of your lover and you.

Love brings vast and immeasurable joy.
It causes the heart to flutter, to soar,
like as when a child receives a new toy.
Such is that feeling which we all yearn for.

Don't despair, don't believe true love is fake.
It exists; it's a chance we all should take.

Come view her coffin, covered in a flower-like moss.
Come see her corpse, like ice, cold and pale.
Feel free to weep tears when words just fail.
A handful of dirt into her grave; go on, give it a toss.
She hopes you will not grieve your loss.
She prays you will not sit at home and wail,
weeping and mourning, letting grief assail
and fling you into torrents of despair as you bear this cross.

For her soul finds its rest, among the deceased.
She welcomed death quite calmly.
Her graying face was not fearful in the least.
When her soul took wing, 'twas a beauty to see.
In Heaven, she hopes that you are a little pleased
knowing her death was one of peace, of tranquility.

Life is beginning to change for me.
I can feel it in the innermost depths of my heart.
Soon, I will become an adult.
My time spent under the guidance of my parents grows shorter still.
I must make a huge decision, and do so quickly.

Everyone believes in me.
They're cheering me on as I stand on the edge of this precipice.
I'm frightened, but curious to find what this world has in store for me.
I'm ready, but not ready, to make the jump into this new world.
Is this what adulthood is like?
Or am I merely being timid?

'Yeah, I'm not vulnerable.'
I've been telling myself this for too long.
I'm delicate.
  Easily damaged.
  Porcelain.
I bare my soul because it brings closure                  
  to wounds left festering for years.
But to be vulnerable means I must have your trust.
  Shall I trust you?
    Pour years of pain before your feet?
    Or would you just hurt me like others could?

Words, properly used, can be the most potent form of flirtation.
Forget the subtle body language;
the light touches, subtle smirks and understated winks.
They're almost nothing compared to spoken dialect.

The human voice, by nature, is beautiful.
Like music, it lilts on one's tongue and reaches a variance of pitch.
To put that to work in cooperation with the mind of one in love..
It's amazing.

Both spoken and written, words achieve something in the seduction game.
That something is the ensnaring of the recipient in a tangled web,
binding that individual, and enticing them to reciprocate such language.

Like a moth to a flame, flirtatious words dazzle one into an addiction to the other person.
Whether the addict is conscious of their enslavement, it is extremely effective.
Isn't it?