When I die bury me on a mountain
in New Mexico,
so the wildflowers can overtake my body, and my soul can be as free
and beautiful
as I've always imagined.

i was driving
to the field
in my car, my baby,
and god she was
beautiful.

you were sitting
right beside me
radio up, windows down,
and god you were
beautiful.

you poured water
down my shirt,
and i was afraid
that i would crash,
because i couldnt stop
laughing.

and neither could you.

i hate you for making me love you
even when i hate you.
and i hate your smile
because it pierces my heart
and makes me want to cry.
then i do and you ask me whats wrong
but i cant even tell you
because i dont know.
im as bipolar as the texas weather.
and sometimes you forget a jacket.
i hate you because everytime you lie
i give you another chance.
and i hate you because even though i dont want to be with you
i cant be without you.
drowning sounds nice to me
but everytime i try
you pluck me out and give me air
just enough to survive.
most of all i hate you because no matter what you do *i cant hate you

I barfed tonight.
I was tired of feeling fat.
Tomorrow I'll eat better.
I say that all the time.
Tomorrow never comes.

I don't think I can do this.

I am a fool
for dreaming big dreams
that I can't accomplish.
I am a failure
as my knees give out
and my mind gives up
and I quit.

my poems get ******* and *******
and if i could delete the last few i would. but i guess i dont write for you anyways, i write for me. and sometimes i just need to get the jumbled mess in my head down on paper before i go insane. i'm sorry.

I want to make love to you while the rain beats against the window and our breath fogs up the glass.
I want to hold your hand while I drive around aimlessly and sing at the top of my lungs.
I want to buy you random **** even though it makes you mad, but I love spending money on you.
I want to look at you and know that you are mine.
I don't want to make halfhearted conversation with a painted on smile.
I don't want to be your friend.

Sometimes I hate poetry because people try to sound eloquent and sophisticated with their words.
They tell some long drawn out story of how their mood changes with the seasons when all that needs to be said is **I'm unhappy and it *****.

a tree is much more
than a little seed pushed in the earth.
it is a towering ballerina,
stretching it's branches out like arms,
to graze the passers by.
it is a singer,
wailing out sweet melodies,
as the wind rushes around.
it is a laborer,
handing out fruit,
and asking for nothing in return.

a tree graciously gives you its bark
to cut up and scar,
just so you can have that memory,
even if you never come back to visit.

it's funny
just a bit
(but not really)
how i mostly just write
in a state of depression
as if happiness
is something too great to share
because happiness isn't experienced alone
so why tell strangers about it

but sadness, jealousy, heartbreak
those are lonely emotions
so i write
hoping to get some kind of validation
hoping a stranger will reach out
and tell me i'm not crazy
for my thoughts,
and they have

strangers have been there
far more than friends
on the long nights  
when i'm too ashamed
to do anything but hide behind a computer

and now i'm just here
in a place of indifference
wondering why i stopped writing
wondering why the good times
can't also be shared

i'm stuck
in this rut
and i've made friends
have a boyfriend
a dog
the whole thing

but i miss the comfort of strangers
who know me more intimately
than anyone else

i'm laying down
on the floor
on my back
in a never ending room

i'm the only one there
and it's spinning
or the world's spinning
or i'm spinning

and it's black

I'm on the cusp
of greatness
but even in my victories
I feel like an outsider.

because the words spew out like *****
and I am one sick child.
They flow out of my mouth as
ceaselessly as the tears
drip off my nose.
And they splash around your feet,
but you don't even stop to clean up your shoes.

i dont know why
half the time
i kiss with nothing lips.

lips that are pressed
against another's
but cant feel anything at all.

can someone please
tell me
what's wrong with me?

and how i can love someone
without feeling the need
to touch them.

There's two kinds of people existing,
you see.
There's people like you
and there's people like me.

Yeah, I might make others happy
because I do just what I'm told.
While you drive others crazy,
because you're strong-willed and you're bold.

But the world doesn't need a good worker,
a girl who gets the job done.
The world needs you, who questions the law,
and always makes everything fun.

You cut my head off
and devour my brain.
Taking my originality
and leaving me blank.
You draw a jagged smile
onto my face so
when you put me on a pedestal
I'll look just as you
described me.

in which
i wasn't
enough

and i'll never
find out
why