For an odd reason,
we place our pencils at rest.
We tuck them to bed,
and the darkness aids their slumber.
It is not to blame.

We,
now the blossoming future,
bring upon life but yet,
have nothing to show.
Our journal,
it yearns for the ink of our great minds.
A secret,
A tale.
A new beginning.
But yet,
we have nothing.
We are nothing.
And thus,
our pages remain blank,
and our lamp lacks oil.

It seems quite funny how,
though the world is spinning
round
and
around
everything appears quite still with you.
The ever sweet feelings of consistency.

The outside,
can never compare to
the sweetest of insides.
The skin as soft,
and gentle at even the firmest grip.
Fragile,
but never fearsome.
The inside,
oh how can one depict.
A core,
of pure blissfulness.
A heart,
which yearns to bring out a smile.
A sunrise which
yearns to bloom and bring warmth.

And after?
What is one left with?
The pit of to be disposed?
No,
rather a memory.
One is often said,
to be "true to their roots."
And for just as this peach,
its core is a symbol of home.
A yearn for a future.
The seed brings you home.
Home to those who love you.

I shall forever bloom with you.

I cannot hate you.
I cannot create a sense of anger and discomfort,
Because our chapters do not align.

I cannot hate you.
Footsteps pull one forward,
Unless to choose to have them constrain you backwards.

I cannot hate you.
For love is defined as one who has a full heart.
One who cannot be without,
A sense of comfort and yearn.

I cannot hate you.
A prayer to God may not heal the future.
For though I cannot hate you,
I can make a move to love myself,
And continue my chapter..
Without your silhouette on the cover.

Him and I are unalike,
that is why we fit together.
You and I are for one another,
that is why we are meant forever.

Life takes turns,
as a windy path.
Perhaps leading somewhere
in which you cannot see the end.

Life leaves questions unanswered.
Why do we live and die?
Or perhaps something more simple as,
why do red and blue mix and produce purple?

For once,
I do not yearn to have the question answered.
I sit and ponder.
Late nights can drown me and leave me even
more wide eyed.

The future.
The future is as a blind driver.

The future.
We have the ability to become an artist.
We paint the canvas now,
for a step towards tomorrow.

As I said,
I do not wish the question to be answered.
For,
something has altered.

Have you ever had one moment that changed all?
It makes your head quite less dizzy,
as if you could see your future through a crystal ball.

Euphoria is often an end goal.
We see ourselves somewhere.
We see ourselves with someone.

He/she makes the future less a blur,
and more a world of color.

Maybe,
we cannot paint this someone.
But,
we can search.

It is a question,
in which I refuse to have answered.
Because for once,
I am letting it be.

I told myself,
Something does not feel exactly sound,
And I realized I had not written a poem,
A good poem,
In about a month.
So I came back.
I am here with
something rather visual
And known,
But very uncovered.
By myself,
At least.

I yearn to be blunt,
But as a writer
I am a dancer with a pen.

I have an issue with food.
Now,
This is not a plea for help.
This is not a secret.
This is acceptance.
I have come to an understanding with myself.
A concept,
I am rather proud of.

I would not speak,
That I do not love myself.
Because
I have a wonderful and beautiful life.
A blessing day after day.
But,
I have an issue with food.

Something,
Just keeps my mind,
Versus
My mirrored image,
Not in accord.

I spend a great deal of time,
In deep thought.
Often,
In the darkness before I close my eyes.
I contemplate,
If food,
Is worth it the next day.

Do not get me wrong,
I enjoy sweets
As much as the next girl.
Yeah,
Her over there.
But often,
After I do enjoy,
Everything blurs around me.
All I can do
Is reminisce
On what has just entered my stomach.
Is it worth it?
The bathroom is right around the corner..

It’s not sadness.
It’s not a cry for help.
It’s just an issue with food.

I fell in love with you. A silent love. A single sided love-only I felt. I prayed that you’d want me one day. Someday. That day hasn’t come. I promised myself I’d wait. That a shooting star would graze the sky-and youyou’d realize you can’t live without me. Life does not grant miracles, but Jesus hears prayers. He reassured me. He reassures me that I will be okay without your blue eyes staring into mine. That it is okay to let you go. I illustrated a tale in my head, titled “you love me as I love you.” But that novel is nonexistent-and that is alright. Because, maybe not today, or tomorrow, I will smile as you hold another. I will one day laugh with another. The book is not finished, and that is okay. The book no longer includes you. And that is alright.

We tend to see life,
from a third person view.
We look.
We feel.
We think..
but maybe too much of ourselves.
We forget the others,
face to face with us.

You see,
you can state,
that he or she's feelings matter..
but in a reality when you want,
they do not bring a thought to your mind.
You forget.
Who?

They do not return.
A fantasy is a fantasy.
A pray remains a pray.
God keeps them away,
because of what is face to face with you.
But you refuse to see..
because you want.

You forget that person.
That beating heart.
A smile that breaks into care.
You forget..
because you want.
You want what will not return.

Understand,
my heart played that dangerous game,
for many years..
without knowing the rules.
Love is as a magic trick.
Being blind is like another sad tune.
Our eyes see,
but our hearts are covered.
And once more,
I’ve been fooled.

I have returned,
and perhaps I am now just an unwanted visitor.
But now,
I am in need of you.
Poetry,
you are my oxygen.

As usual,
I come bearing a new concept.
I have grown.
Not since my last visit,
but from my time of first developing this passion.
In this course of growth,
I’ve come to receive advice.
Little things.
Do this.
Do not do this.
Some things I’ve come to realize as myself.

Happiness.
In the years previous to the current,
I can pin point the key moments of my life.
The high and low tides,
shall we say.
At high tide,
I was a joy.
My cup never empty.
And although grim,
we each face low tides in our lives.

But,
sadness is not the concept of my visit.
No, for it is happiness.
I have come to realize,
that I am pleased to be here.
Here as in my life.
I have blossomed.
Made decisions both poor and superlative.
I have become the sculpter of my life.
And of course,
I am joyful.
Happiness surround my heart,
although,
it is not as my previous years.
For yes, I have come to love myself and the world around, but it is not the same.

So now,
I come to bring upon a message.
See I was once handed advice noting,
“life will always be changing.”
For yes,
this is correct.
We learn to be happy.
Then we grow.
Our happiness shifts,
but are we not still gay in our daily lives?
It is not as the previous state.
Life is always changing.

You are precious.
You are beauty,
in the purest form.
Your heart skips no beat,
for a ballerina is rhythm.
She holds a head high,
and maybe it is all she has left,
because it is not her own.
You mustn't save them.
You mustn't save her.
For the possiblity,
in all the cruelty and confusion,
you are only able to keep youreself..
from slipping away.
One hand gripped.
Five fingers.
Four.
Three.
Two.
Shot down to one.
And you have vanished.

Poetry.
Beauty in each rhythmic line.
Beauty in the eyes of the author.
Beauty in the eyes of the reader.
A sigh of relief and pride,
shall always come to the face of the author,
as another pencil is set down after a masterpiece.

Poetry.
Paint as words.
Feeling as shortened breaths.
Sadness as a fantasized character.

Poetry.
"It's only for the emotional."
"The weak"
"Those who can't find another way to solve their problems, so they bury us in it."

The poet.
The poet does not always require sadness lagging on their heart,
to produce a blossoming garden of inspiration.
Poems share meaning,
with those who seek and understand it.
Poets can be oh so full,
of pure joy.
Poems can express happiness for each blade of grass,
in which we walk on barefoot in the summers.

The poet.
Our lives are not lacking color and liveliness.
We write to help others.
To aid in a crazy chaotic world.
Happy.
Sad.
We inhabit together.

Looking behind,
into my past.
The emotions.
The tears.
The poems.
I dwelled on what I felt,
and possibly did not.
I wrote of deep sadness,
and the agony of a fragile heart.
I was lacking something.

That something,
was joy.
Yes,
I have always been a gentle soul.
Never much anger,
only a small pinch of frustration.
But you see,
it had never meant much
because I dwelled on that sadness.
We become so caught up in these
small insignificant set backs..
that we forget the joy,
that is life.

I have all the typical needs in life.
Food.
Water.
Shelter, a family, friends,
and most importantly Jesus in my heart.
I have more than I could want.
Sometimes,
I become obssesed in the items,
the price, and glamour.

As I sit hear,
coffee in my hand,
I have come to a realization.
I have everything I could need and want.
I lacked appreciation.
Each day,
I hope to continue forward and count my wonderful blessings.

I have set my norm,
as writing to what is my comfort.
But today,
I decided to take an unknown path.
Today,
I will tell
how wonderful it is to be imperfect.

"Save it for your blog"
But dear friend,
it needs to be heard.
Perhaps,
the only way some will listen,
is through rhythmic lines.

Lay down.
Close your eyes.
Now tell me,
what is the definition of perfection.
Being tall?
Skinny?
Have perfect grades?
Popular?

You,
yes you.
Tell me your ideal "perfection."
Now you,
yes you over there.
What is your ideal image of being oh so perfect?

Both of you now give your attention.
Would you believe,
that both their definitions we not in accord?
What a concept.
How we as humans,
get strung up on the concept,
of being the "ideal human."
When in reality,
how can we create the concept of "perfection" if we all give it different definitions?

What is your greatest fear?
Your weakness?
It is okay,
say it in a whisper.
I am here to inform,
not pass judgement.

Now you,
yes ALL of you.
Tell me your talents.
Shout them to the sky.
Tell me what you find your greatest feature.
Flaunt it.

Let me tell you a little secret,
if you could not already tell above all the yells of pride,
every single person named something DIFFERENT.
You.
You.
And YOU.
You are magnificent.
Beautiful.
Your flaws and weaknesses,
make up something imperfect.
Something wonderfully imperfect.
Something that is you.
All of you.

Here's a thought, if imperfect is just as being perfect?
And we're all imperfect,
then we all must be..

Perfect.

Deep,
from within,
a spark is lit inside your heart.
Pure joy is there.
You may not always know,
or be capable to explain,
but it is there.
He has blessed you.
Oh how has his joy consumed you.
For Jesus loves you.

I am one of the game,
which was given the name of chess.
Think,
you are observing the newest
attraction at the store along the block.
The pieces,
oh you can see your reflection,
for they are polished to the tip.
The joy it brings upon ones' face,
to place it on the dinning table.

Kings,
Queens.
Bishops.
You carefully push aside,
the box's front.
The pieces sprawled out,
your fingers discovering new textures
of each piece.

A single pause,
as you lift something small from.
Not just one,
several.
But none have the same glimmer,
as the more powerful pieces.
For,
I am one of those pieces.

You organize the board.
Your board.
The pieces aligned,
no error.
Which piece shall we begin with?
The queen?
Oh she can go anywhere!
As far as she pleases!
Oh,
but that is much too simple.
She has freedom.
Much great control.
The bishop?
Oh no,
not quite.
You must first,
move through those several small pieces.
The easiest.
Not quite useful.
But indeed,
you will first move..
the pawn.

You pride that pawn.
Moving it one square.
Then another.
One more.
Hmm..
Now it is not blocking yet another piece..
A powerful,
beautiful new piece.
For,
you have gotten your use from that pawn.
It can go.
So,
you let it go.

I am the pawn.
The easiest.
Not quite useful.
But indeed,
you will first move..
the pawn.

Releasing a huge sigh,
in the greatness known as,
relief.
For I finally began to speak to myself,
and I spoke and said,
"You can."

In touch with my own world,
better than with reality.
It is okay.

Maybe,
he held me close that night,
not because he loved me once again.
Or that he wanted to feel my
body underneath my summer length shorts and cropped tee shirt pressed up against him.
For maybe,
we both just needed to be held for awhile.

We hurt,
thus we rant and vent,
until our throat reaches the rawness,
of our hearts.
But,
for the unlucky few,
words are not steady.
Telling is the equivalent to confronting.
And not a soul,
enjoys the irony and redness upon the face,
of bittersweet confrontation.

Why are we at this stage of uneasiness?
Why is our mind so free,
but our mouth trembles to speak?

Day by day,
Minute by minute,
Second after second,
my mind cannot just simply "think."
No.
My mind befriends itself.
Telling it all the joyous moments.
All the laughter I've shared with my loved ones.
How blessed I am to witness the sunshine of this life.
But you see,
my mind also
shares when it is confused.
Uneasy.
Maybe there is something to hide.

I plead to discover,
as to why I fear in blossoming in these emotions.
My mind has something to tell,
something colorful and wonderful to say..
but my lips will not dare to move.
For maybe,
I uphold confusion.
Am uneasy.
I have something to hide.

Do not be mistaken,
for I am a joyous soul.
My eyes glisten,
in a sense of staring up,
looking beyond.
For one day,
some day,
a sinless life.
The support,
it never lacks in excellence.
All ears and eyes to myself,
if I am in need.

This may only appease,
those who are close.
If your eyes are scrolling,
at this particular second,
then here is your answer.
I do not comprehend why my mind has befriended itself.
For yes,
I have befriended you.
My mind,
oh how it adores you.
But my lips,
will not let it slip.
So,
when you see my fingers gripped to a pencil.
My hand in furious motion,
just know,
my mind is also befriending the paper,
thus setting itself at ease.

You friend,
may not know every detail.
Every confused thought.
Every uneasy glimpse.
Or every hidden secret.
Perhaps I don't open easily.

Perhaps I am just beginning.
Perhaps,
I am just born.
Perhaps the sapling in the back and I,
are circulating the same.

You see,
that apple tree over the hill,
through the woods,
bloomed at grandmother's for a reason.
But her pie,
of the sweetest scent
is upon my table.

Perhaps I am just beginning.
Perhaps,
I am just born.
Perhaps the sapling in the back and I,
are circulating the same.

You see,
that apple tree over the hill,
through the woods,
bloomed at grandmother's for a reason.
But her pie,
of the sweetest scent
is upon my table.

Ma'am picked her,
while she was just about ripe.
Taking what was most precious.
Maybe it was for the best.
Maybe,
we were only to benefit.

She took what was precious to me.
I couldn't quite imagine
my life without an answer.

Perhaps I am just beginning.
Perhaps,
I am just born.
Perhaps the sapling in the back and I,
are circulating the same.

You see,
that apple tree over the hill,
through the woods,
bloomed at grandmother's for a reason.
But her pie,
of the sweetest scent
is upon my table.

God chose me to go a different path,
to die in the arms of love.
To die at the feet,
of one who's eye's are pure,
and preached his humbleness.

She did not speak often.
Her lips need not, for her
body could talk.
Her lips dipped in the reddest
of all wines of the vineyard.
Figure so long.
Gentle but never frail.
She was grace,
in the purest form.

My heart was fatal,
but she,
she wore beauty as a shade of happiness.
A color not known by the human eye.  
Her body moved,
how it moved to a twinkle.
She spun me off my two knees.

With the cross of a ribbon,
and a finger of rouge to the cheek;
I was ready.
I prayed.
I pleaded
For my fragile heart to morph.
She flew.
She danced about my soul, and before the eyes of heaven..
I did could not imagine a death any greater..
than one of a love for my ballerina.

A whistle,
blows off the steam
heated inside the kettle.
Warmth is luscious and comforting.
The sensation that will soon puncture between your lips.
It comes to a boil,
the whistle grows greater.
Higher.
Oh that one night.
The note reaches soprano,
and continues.
Water rises to a boil.
Anger.
Only a sound that can make your ears throb.
Grasping the handle,
you pull the *** from it's key source.
Oh how you yearn to do the same.
Something this bitter,
needs a sweetener.
The warmth will exit.
Won't it need someplace to go?
Honey,
your warmth is forever welcome,
if you find yourself becoming cold on the boil.

Perhaps,
I'd release the negativity
of you,
by writing.
Page by page.
But that would waste too many lines.
Too many chapters.
Tree by tree.
Our oxygen is precious,
and you already suffocated my heart.

Fall apart.
As ripped pages,
in the worn book
perched on your shelf.
Begging for mercy.
Pleading,
to be opened.
Unhinged,
the lies pour,
into a bottomless pit,
where mercy is belittled.
You laugh,
because He  
He will salvage you.
The laugh of a scream,
can depict the sanity.

Your sheep,
dear sir,
are follow a flock of knave beings.
Preachings split and unopended wound.
Red,
the whale swallows,
an apple possesses.
The wound is in your mind.
In your heart.
Do you worship a fairytale?

You,
dismantled me.
Piece by piece.
Through all my love.
And I now,
accept you're right,
to hold the anger.
Love is superior.
Love is almighty.
Love is the grip,
I wish I knew..
how to hold on tightly.

I struggle to feel,
a sufficient mindset.
In a sea
of radiant creatures,
I am the unfit.
I breathe oxygen,
while they,
are capable of inhaling water.

I push the boundary,
while they have already crossed.
I starve,
while they are able,
to feed.
They have,
given themselves a sense
of beauty,
because their brain
is of one with their mind.  

I am not one
to understand.
I fail,
while they have just arisen.
Beauty is in the mindset.
Beauty has blossomed to a number.
I am not that number.

Still,
like a morning breath,
one stood.
Rays of purple,
arose over skin.
A familiar coloring,
as the moon was birthed from the night sky,
and the purple transformed black.
Sitting still in one's skin,
an internal scream,
and shattered self promises.
Left too little,
to be blossomed beautiful,
once more.

Unmute.
And not an uncommon sight,
a child sits in a solitary corner,
eyes salted as he witnesses the screams,
of his parents choke the air.
Not much sense is made,
in blank silence.
Not much sense is made,
in unharmed skin.

They laugh.
They sigh.
They let the wind blow away,
the precious moments of stability.
What becomes superior to it?
The force,
which converts one's ego,
to harm another.
And develops a promise,
that is a new shade of purple..
a perfect tear to his eye,
another breath struggling to be taken.

Cliche.
A word.
A word to describe,
a bare moment..
of happiness.

A sip led to another,
and I was in a drunken twilight.
My body,
pressed in your lap,
my hands,
running through your hair.

Not a moment had I felt,
and insecurity in protection.
Your arms wouldn't be found,
anywhere but on my skin.
Causing me a shiver,
in a romantic twist.

My eye level rises.
They are fixed.
On the mess you let me make
of your hair.
The eyes that hold me hostage.
And the smile,
that baked my heart.  
An aesthetic trapped in my mind.
The look,
that always made me recall my love for you.

It's like a cycle.
He enters at the rate,
any new-comer would.
Charming.
Gentle.
Fast as that autumn breeze,
he illustrates a whirl in your mind.
Your life.
You depic beauty in his eyes.
Autumn bursts into a heavy fall.
Face first,
and he is no where.
Your eyes weather.
They bring heavy rain.

It's like a cycle.

A hope,
a glimmer,
is upon the iced winter.
The air crisp as a sweet apple.
A stable environment,
happiness birthed each day.
All stood at a pause,
but a warmth seemed to be inching.
Suttle and simple
Beauty had arisen,
in oranges, pinks, and blues.
Spring.
You were being educated,
in what was once,
the love of autumn.
Warmth.
Compassion.
Greater and unwilling to harm...
An unjust statement.
A drizzle,
and he vanished.

It's like a cycle.

A blazing sunshine.
A clear sky.
A past to be forgotten.
The grass healthy,
as footprints were laid upon it.
Laughter is where it was chosen to be.
A memory,
never to be forgotten.
Not a change in the air,
but a slight breeze.
It was over.
Beauty was freshly created.
Life was returned in your eyes...
But you had failed to visualize,
a season,
once born,
must die,
and must return once more.
In a silent twilight,
he brings another autumn.

It is a cycle.

Communication of shallow hearts. One to dream, and one to awaken with a sense of alcoholic poisoning. If bare sheets were to speak, they would only mumble, because they are pushed to a far loneliness.
She awakens to a breath of poisoned air. Locked in a hotel room; shallow heart’s only nightmare, but great wonder. Her wonder came as an angel proclaiming divinity. At the particular moment, rain came as her eye’s procured yonder to meet another’s. A mouth opens as her shuts. Stale alcohol filled the space between her and another.
A smell equivalent to depression, yet eager for a happy ending, in the hand of another. Quite a funny concept when brought to one’s mind. How one can explore any body they’ve laid their eyes upon. Hand in hand. One hand begins to slide. Just a minor adjustment can lead to such of intimidation and intimacy. Beauty itself could not define this concept.
She did not find this so. How can one remember a previous moment in life with such mistakes. He told her not to go. Frivolously she hadn’t listened. All passion was eradicated in what was once envied from strangers as they passed out on the streets.


The 20th of a warm May evening. The humidity made the air difficult to inhale for small breaths, but she had discovered a liking to it. Not that evening. Her mind blossomed for anything his lips began to curve for. An alteration in the air seemed to occur as she attained an umbrella in one hand. The other hand though, was occupied. But, not by a suitcase. Her minded consistently fled from the common “I’m packing my bags and leaving you” tale. Not a lie to tell, this was on her mind. Her hand continued to remain occupied, by a man on his knees.
See, the irony always struck Anabell..Ana, as he insisted sounded luscious just as the daisy he placed in her hair. As he proposed, one knee remained gently on the grass below. Serenity played in the air on repeat. In the present moment, tears darken the freshly replaced carpet. Two knees bounded to the floor. Possibly implied that the love was greater? How could the impact of just a body part create such an twist of irony in her mind?
Regardless, her hand resisted grip. “Good god..I love you,” he croaked against his damp eyes. “ Don’t put yourself on the dangers of streets. Please take the keys..Promise me you’ll be back tomorrow..Ana please..please come back.” She resisted to adjust her focus back. The door. It’s handle. What the rust that dominated over the once gold shine. Irony. She held a laugh. A laugh that centered on insanity and the saturation of her mental being. Ana’s one central focus was on the “yellow brick road” beyond that ****. The grasp was loose; almost nonexistence. As arduous as it had become in those minimal seconds, his eyes were there. His eyes were inadequate to an adjective.
Such a stereotypical concept in itself , but Ana drew circles pondering the topic. She was not one for anatomy, but those eyes. His pupils burned the color black. A blessing, just ready for one to study.  Any poet would blow a kiss to this concept. The beauty glossed over into the sky above as the blue became a shade darker by the minute once the evening was birthed. A hyperbole for the warmth given off by his eyes. The beauty she created from this scenario, aided to her own failure.
Ana destroyed her own thought processing. It conserved her sanity and if she were to follow, not a finger could reach the door.
She walked without a single regret. Whether it was uncontrollable impulse, or lack of love..no one was capable of knowing.

They said that,
tragedy holds the greatest power,
to unite a nation together.
Have we ever stopped,
to ponder why it is,
that we were not as one?

From the infant steps imprinted,
by the feet of the wide-eyed;
Pilgrims blew a farewell to the Mayflower.
Their minds were immature to reality.
Survival was a game,
but not played unaccompanied.

It took not a great mind,
no,
but the acceptance of another.
The knowledge to see the greater,
the talent,
in one of a counter race.
Neither built a feast,
off of hatred,
false convictions,
or flesh coloring.
For,
it was built from something grander..

Unity.

Turn the clocks.
Let them tick away.
Where are we now?
We brawl..
over the superior race.
We debate on who,
constitutes to the degree,
of having a worth to life.
Our streets are sprawled with blood,
some of those who preach the protection,
of the violence that is destroying us.

If we,
were to be the pilgrims,
1620,
would we hold hands with whom we did not know?
Or would we choose to perish,
only for that,
the hand reaching out,
is unfamiliar in shade?

We suffer,
because we refuse to see.
We fail to give the hand,
to those we have grown to seem unfamiliar.
Our mindset refuses,
to except a difference.
Thus,
we are allowing ours streets to be stained red,
We suffer,
because we do not help ourselves grow as one.

Unity.

My body language resembled it's own comfort.
It was not preached to me,
although she is attacked,
for those who can not connect with her usual.
Her comfort is a barrier,
created by unacceptance.

I see him,
unclean face, alcohol soothes over his lip.
Perfect symmetry.
With a stumble over his left foot,
his presence was affront my uneasiness.
He speaks a tale of how he reads me,
how he can discover me.
How each syllable spit off his tongue,
craves my body.
He states "my kind" are more appealing lacking voice,
with our legs a distance from another.

I am scolded.
I am scolded for my lack in ability.
They do not know,
I was never taught,
No one is.
One leg is demanded to lay over the other.
The curriculum reads it to be so.
"Your kind is in a lack of grace."

Someone close,
sits aside my quivering body.
Everyone seemed to express immense
freeness.
I was unaware of this comfort.
"Let your legs breathe for a change."

"My kind" is not righted to
the feelings of openness or security.
All for the positioning of the lower part of the body.
Open for a drunken hand to slip where
it mustn't reach,
Closed for the restoration of grace in a society.

My kind is a doorway to be used by the world.

The end is in partaking. It is not one or the other, but both. All must be over. But, the love lives on. It must never die. Shakespeare did  not compose love for it to die. He wrote so that we, the humble but weak, could  learn. And as we learn, we grow a passion in our hearts. This passion grows. It grows like an infant. At first so meek, not aware of how much damage he or she will do to another’s character. The matter is, we are fragile.  Our hearts eat themselves raw everyday. Broken down from another, we crawl, just as the infant.

Every emotion I had grasped in my mind from the beginning to end was just aspiring dishonesty. Is it that I wished it was false or was my vague memory creating another sugar-coated scenario? But, this was not sweet. My mind was no longer set to correct my actions. My heart, or what was left in tact ran as far as it could to shelter. But, there was no shelter. My life was wide open as it always had been...but his was not. It never would be. It was not that he lied, but was completely honest. He said he loved me. I was screaming inside. “How could you do this to me...again?” I was always his rubble of emotions to throw out when it was too much for him to handle. Life itself was way beyond his reach. I could never comprehend this about him. All I ever wanted to do was love him. But, without his mind being clear he himself would never be present in love or any situation for the matter, and he would soon disappear. Extinct to the society where love was the farthest, but yet greatest reward. It was not an excuse. Not this time. Not ever. I guilted at these words.
How could I damage him anymore than he already claimed to be? He could say that it was not me. It did no use. I always grasped the thought that I could **** one’s self worth. It was not my intention. I spent so long blaming it on love. I was right. How else could I betray the one friend that made my life a shameless place for me to show self expression? I did it for him. He held my heart to a higher amount than his own.