Don't be afraid I'll take your hand
I'll be by your side all the days long
You help me and I'll help you
And together we'll make it through
Together we'll make it Home

and I can’t help but
think of you every time I hear
the sound of Julian Casablancas’s
voice
and I can’t help it
I will never be able to listen to
the Strokes without
remembering why i loved you
and I can’t help it
there isn’t a single September I’ve lived through without
being reminded of the first time
we fell in love
and it’s quite funny actually
that even after all this time
you’re still my favourite muse
and it’s quite remarkable actually
that even after how much you
hurt me
I could never ever
not love you
you never did realize
how lucky you were,
did you?
or perhaps I’m asking myself
that same question
either way,
you’re still
there
in those songs
in those places
and it will always be
the most bittersweet
of returns.

I took the casket by the hand,
whispered to her that everything was going to be alright,
and then poured my heart out to her.
Literally.
The little red pieces get buried tonight.
The viewing's at eight, between final exams.
You can take a piece with you.
Don't tell the funeral director.
He's afraid people will cut themselves with the shards.
But I don't mind.
A few scars do people some good.
Ironic.
I wouldn't have said that if my heart were here.
He always knew what to say.

Oh, what's that?
You want to fix him?
He said in his will
that the idea of repair was stupid.
Funny
that my heart would believe in YOLO.
Oh well.

So, coming to visit soon, old love?
He left you something in his will.

Himself.

i need a crash course for how to give someone an ultimatum
i need a guideline for how to bypass bullets of guilt
that always aim straight for the heart
and lodge themselves into the core of my chest
i need a technique on how to take them out of my body
without getting my hands all ******
without the terror and devastation of leaving
a pool of blood in the beds of everyone
around me
i need a how-to-stop-needing-your-mother guide
i need to find the-thesaurus-for-making-the-truth-sound-nicer
but no matter how i try to word this,
it always ends up coming out wrong.

get sober, or get out of my life.

this is not as simple as it sounds.

i am so done playing this game
i need a ******* mother who doesn't go from being
kind then manipulative then cold then apologetic then attacking
all in one hour
i need you to grow the **** up and set a ******* example
i've given up on you
i can't believe i just wrote that
i don't know how to tell you any of this
hoping hurts too much and i am trying
to convince these wounds to heal a little softer for once
i'm trying to be gentle with myself
and no matter how much i wish you could be a part of that -
the healing -
you still make me want to die.

everything about this is so wrong
so wrong so wrong so wrong

i'm not certain of a lot of things
but i am **** sure that the devil
is at the root of addiction - of every kind -
and i'm sorry for those who love someone
who is sick like this
there is no greater pain than this
there is no greater pain
than this
and i have never understood something
more deeply
than i understand
this and sometimes i wonder if it would be easier
if i never understood it
in the first place.

the sound of your laugh is the sound
of me not wanting to die anymore
the last day of this month could quite possibly be
the saddest day of this entire year
this has been the best month of my life and i don't want
it to end.

how
can time be both a curse
and a blessing
all at once?
i suppose it's similar to the life of someone
who is trying to die but keeps
on existing
someone who keeps the door for second chances
closed but never
locked.

one thing i've learned recently
is the difference between someone
who will love me always despite anything and everything
and someone who says they love me
because they're weak with word withdrawal and need
to hear it back.

i used to trust everyone, anyone
who would show a little bit of affection, attention
toward me. i'm glad
that phase is over.

Hello, old friend,
whose semi-permanent smile
laces my vision like toxic ranks of pearly whites.

Hello, old friend,
whose sparkling eyes blaze
like the funeral pyre of my pride and prejudice.

Hello, old friend,
whose apparent ineptitude melts like happiness
as your name burns in black on that page.

You signed my yearbook like a death certificate,
wrote an affectionate note in the shape of nothing
worth knowing.
The lines bleed, multiply, crackle and shine
in the dull light of this most tiring expanse of computers.
Their brains function better than mine.

Hello, old friend,
whose pen now swirls across the work you were assigned,
work you pursue less like a lion
and more like a cougar,
if you get my message.
(There’s no taking the jungle out of you, Amazon.)

Hello, old friend.
Keep snapping pictures with your iPhone,
like it’s New Years and you just kissed DiCaprio in Times Square,
wearing a dress with all the greens of envy
splattered across the fabric.

Hello, old friend.
Keep telling me you hate it when I act like this,
when your eyes turn to four points and your skin to letters
from colleges begging like a forgotten lover
for you to take them and make them home.
The home you’re leaving for next month.

Hello, old friend.
Today is now solemn in so many new ways.
You achieved higher than the skyscrapers in the photograph
next to your eight-line submission.

Hello, old friend.
No.
Revision time.
Revision like the backspace key and the scribbled lines
over inadequate things I wrote
to try and climb your Olympian pedestal.

Revision like the eraser on the pen,
revision like the keys thumping as though this machine
had a heart,
as though mine wasn’t broken
because I’m never good enough for anybody.
I write my best poetry when I’m angry.

Ironic that poetry made me angry.
I can taste the paradox spinning like the clock hands
that tick, tick, tick until the day when you sit in a car
on top of a thousand suitcases
and a few well-wishes from your confederates in college.
I can taste it like a toxin.

And now,
now you’re going
and there’s only time to say:
good-bye, old friend.

I’m scared.
Cold, alone......... scared.
My body aches from fighting.
I won, but at what cost?
Revenge shouldn’t be the answer.
They took her life, my true love.
I’m crying, crying like I’ve never cried before.
A life for a life, but at what cost?
I became the person, I set out to destroy.
I’m a monster, a creation the devil himself devised.
I’m scared.
I’m alone, cold, and nothing to cling on to.
I have nothing........ nothing.
There’s only one thing for me to do.
I’m picking up my choice of death.
Goodbye monster.
You’ve done the most evil thing imaginable.
It’s time for you to go.
I’m taking you with me, back to where you came from.
Forgive me Father, for what I’m about to do.
I’ll see you in a few seconds.
Five....... My heart is beating fast.
Four........ Sweat is covering my face.
Three........ My heart is beating faster.
Two........ Hello love, good to see you again.



One........ Goodbye.

“BANG!!!!!”

You're a beautiful mystery clad in gorgeous enigma.
You're poetry that looks good in a skirt.

There's an orchestra on your tongue, playing the sound of your voice like a melody I can't forget,
matching the tempo of the drums in my heart
and the broken strings of my violin compliments.

You are a notebook, a yearbook, a sketchbook, a burn book,
every facet of you written in swirling cursive,
rhymes and famous signatures snaking between cinnamon hair and cleverness.

You are a pen running out of ink,
bleeding dry in Barnes and  Noble Moleskin journals,
but that's okay because I have more ink,
and you can borrow whatever you want from me--
store it in the heart you stole if you're bored enough to hunt my words for the pieces.
You have the key already.

You're the first dream of the boy too scared of nightmares to sleep again.

You are the taste of honey and cigarettes on the lips of the first girl that boy ever kissed,
because she was a rebel and he needed a hero
who wore boots instead of Mary-Janes
and band t-shirts instead of blouses.

You are the rose he drew when he was bored,
an outline with potential,
mysterious, entrancing, incomplete,
not yet ablaze with the red of desire
because he was never good at finishing things.
You are a dictionary. Your picture isn't just under "beautiful."
It's under "dangerous" and "witty" and "myth"
because Medusa bowed at your feet next to James Bond and Edgar Allan Poe,
and you're too good to be true anyways.

You are a poem, a telltale heart beating inside a lesson in vengeance,
temporary only because nothing gold can stay.
You've walked past where the sidewalk ends (certainly the road less traveled by)
and come back far more darling than any buds of May.

(You are the paperback novel he read under the covers,
the flashlight only bright enough to show paragraphs,
and every new page unique in shape and form
while the text remains the same.

You are the raw words read aloud by the daring poet,
standing beneath midnight moon,
the power of the throne,
the breath of a whispered promise falling upon the ear,
the warmth of kisses on the cheek,
the passion of all hope there ever was in trust and truth.

You are the fire in lightning,
the sparkle in the snow and the glitter in the rain,
the fierceness of the wind and the gentle, soothing peace,
the blazing chill of winter and the roar of summer's heat.)

But you're still a mystery.
A beautiful,
beautiful
mystery.

There's this empty feeling deep inside
I feel in you I can confide
You were always there for me when I was in need
When I was with you I couldn't feel my heart bleed
Even though the pain and loneliness was still there
You showed me how to just not care
For so long now we have been apart
I'm feeling empty and that's just the start
Soon I'll feel the loneliness and the pain
I need you like flowers need rain
Sure we had our problems as most do
There were moments when I even hated you
It'll be different this time I know we can work
After all ever relationship has its quarks
So how about it, what do you say
I need you to drive the pain and loneliness away
Take my hand and don't let me go
It'll be our little secret no one will ever know

I'm working I tell my mom
staying up late at night as she thinks I'm doing homework
while I actually waste time on youtube and 9gag.com
search cultures, and histories, and groups
wanting to belong
and be a part of
a community, a group, find myself
and then I feel so selfish sitting in my room starting to pity those who don't have food
when the pity turns on my for having no sense of culture nor community
I go to school everyday wanting to learn about everything that I don't hear
about space and stars, histories, wars, and of people who belonged with friends in proximity
I can't work, I try to but I can't
I search up how to look more pretty and attract my crush
and then how we shouldn't care about looks from someone who loves to rant
I listen to punk rock, ska punk, celtic punk, and rock because I can't work
I play my trombone because I can't work but I can do music homework
I read books about history and stars because I can't work but I can learn
You can't go anywhere without good grades they say
so if only i was marked on things I wanted to learn
things I wanted to present for things I wanted to earn
I'm only 15 and don't know where this is going
and now I'm resisting the temptation to erase this whole non-poem that I'm to and froing
with info about my life that only I care about
while I procrastinate like most kids do my age
when I hear my mom shout
telling me to not stay up too late and that she's proud of me working
when I'm actually wasting my time and her dreams
so I'll get back to my can't working
ending this not-a-poem with something it's not doing- flowing