i miss the panic attacks that i
used to have
the ones that made me physically weak
the ones that made me shake and cry
the ones that told me that i am weak

sounds terrible, and they really were.
but, i'd rather the physical pain
and the emotional pain
than the psychological pain that i
go through when i have my "new" attacks.

my new attacks scare me so much because
i suddenly feel so unreal.
like reality is taken from me
and i can see myself
i can see the people around me,
i can see everything
and its exhausting,
being in that state of mind.
and then i start to hear things--
screaming people,
children laughing,
a constant voice just saying something.
these aren't my thoughts,
this is a new form of panicking.
and i hate every second of it.

I told her I loved her
because it seemed an awfully grand thing to say.

i have not seen you today-
nor yesterday-
nor the day before that-
and so on.
i have not seen you in several days and
yet i can not stop thinking about your voice.
i hear you in books
and the way the rain falls on my lips
and with every step i take through a puddle--
i hear your muddled voice praying through the hot summer
for me to stay alive just one more day.

you did not know wether i would stay or if i would go.
but, if i were to tell you that i only stayed for you,
would you have loved me back in time?

maybe all of those prayers were wishes
and those wishes were thoughts
and those thoughts were nothing.

The first thing I saw on my schedule was Photography first period in Room B22
My first photography class started with me rushing in tardy with tears
I sat far away from everyone else trying to disappear
I had no friends in that class and I didn't think i'd like Room B22

There was a boy in my class in Room B22
I didn't notice him at first but he seemed kind
He was scrawny and cute with brunette hair just a few shades lighter than mine
I still didn't know anyone in Room B22

That boy talked to me one day in Room B22
And I tried to remember his name
I think it was Nathan...or Nick....or may be James
Wait! James was his brother and he was Nick, one of the many things I learned in Room B22

I started a friendship with Nicholas in Room B22
He'd always show off his pictures in the dark room
And I'd flick water at him while the other students fumed
I was glad I formed a friendship in Room B22

Our friendship began to grow outside of Room B22
We would talk in the hallway and exchange words
I grew fond of him and when we said goodbye, I missed him afterwards
I thought about how I never would have met him if it weren't for Room B22

I developed a little crush on him in Room B22
I tried so many times to tell him but the words got caught in my throat
I was concerned about our friendship and lost all hope
I held a lot of things back in Room B22

I fell completely in love in Room B22
I told him things I couldn't confess to myself
And he never treated me any differently, like I was someone else
I met my best friend and my first love in Room B22

The nights have
always been the worst.
Sitting alone
with a drink
and some drugs.

Close to the
open window,
listening to
the sounds of
the night.

Passing cars and sirens,
a couple arguing
somewhere down the alley,
a whistle set loose
by one of the young
whose turn it
is now to
own the same
night that I
once did.

That slow and
lonely fog horn
sounding it's
warning every 45
seconds a quarter
mile out.

The mind filing through
the days events.
The failures
and the progressions
that weren't really
any type of
real progress at all.

Flipping through it all
in search of a reason.
Images flashing,
the infants smile
or that girls manicured
fingertips gently
along your face.
Magicly guiding
you into a kiss that you
knew meant nothing
to her at all.

Still drinking,
still using,
still counting the
seconds between the fog horns
sounds of the night.

Still trying to keep it all intact.
Mind,
Heart,
Body,
and Muse.

Waiting on a word,
a line.
Something to put
down and save
for the ages.

The nights are
the hardest,
that they've
always been.
But the night
is usually when
this magic
appears.

Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art—
    Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
    Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
    Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
    Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—
No—yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
    Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
    Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.