It's called "falling" in love for a reason.
I used to be a tree,
Strongly rooted in the ground
Independent.
All alone.
Now, I am a mere blade of grass.
My roots intertwine
with those of another
just like our fingers
when he's holding me.

But if he were
To be ripped from my life
I would be uprooted as well.
This tree no longer stands tall
But my lawn assures me that
Love is well worth the risk.

When someone tells you that they’ll always be there for you,
No matter what happens,
But they end up giving up on you,
And leave just like every other person.

They end up becoming everything they said they wouldn't be,
Everything they said they wouldn't do,
You then wanted to forgive and forget,
But it’s too late because you’re so attached to them and can’t find a way to let go.

The hardest part? It's moving on,
Finding someone who makes you just as happy as that other person,
But you’re scarred for life,
And you can’t trust anyone else.

Hell is not made of fire.

A lot of people believe that hell is a world covered in flames, with heat that sears through your very being, scorches your soul, and inflicts terrible agony. They say Hell is a place for fiery torment, where fire is a vicious serpent that winds through your existence and seeks to quench every feeling except anguish, but at the same time refusing to let you be conquered by nothingness, keeping you wide-awake so you can feel every blistering sensation.

They're wrong.

Hell doesn't look the same for everyone else. Hell is a multi-faced mirror with countless reflections caging you inside the hollow of a diamond so you can see the glaring facets you refuse to look at. Hell is not always a place; sometimes it's a feeling, sometimes it's an event--sometimes it's a person.

Hell shows itself not only in death. Hell is everywhere--it's just somewhere around the corner of the street, hiding its face behind a newspaper, waiting for you to make the wrong choices. It's just somewhere behind you, an invisible fiend watching your every step, waiting for you to stumble. And once you do, it will laugh at you. You won't hear its sinister laughter, nor would you notice the subtle shift of the ground beneath your feet.

The odds are no longer in your favor.

Hell is cold. Hell is calculating. Hell is terrorizing.

Hell is reaching inside yourself, searching your heart, trying to find out how you really feel--but ending up finding nothing. Hell is opening your mouth to scream but nothing comes out because there is nothing left inside. Hell is the immovable boulder weighing down on your chest, it is the desperate need for the ability to cry, it is the panic and anguish that comes when you realize you can't.

Hell is watching him with his perfect hair and perfect eyes and perfect smile, knowing he isn't even aware of your plain existence. Hell is realizing for the first time that unrequited love is not as romantic as people say. Hell is waiting, waiting, waiting for something you know won't come. Hell is finally getting the nerve to say 'I love you' but only receiving silence in return. Hell is laughing it all away and saying it's nothing, I understand why, all the while wishing you could run to someplace where you can cry and scream without being heard. Hell is falling in love.

Hell is the red mark on your record, the frowns on your parents' faces, the pitying looks on your friends' expressions. Hell is the star you failed to reach, the shaking heads, the consoling pats on your back. Hell is the mocking laughter ringing in your ears even after they've long ended. Hell is the condescending voices echoing from somewhere in the back of your mind, reminding you who you were, who you've been, and who you are now. Hell is laughing at you. Hell is disappointment. Hell is trying and trying over and over and never succeeding. Hell is failure.

Hell is building your life with damning patience, with meticulous thoroughness, with painstaking care, and having it all knocked down to the ground. Hell is desperation, hopelessness. Hell is the blooming rose standing amidst a bed of withered blossoms. It's the touching beauty of life at its most exquisite, the surging anticipation, the reckless triumph, and the next day when you look for the rose you only find a withered stalk. Hell is hope.

Hell is the silent night torn apart by raging screams and flying furniture. Hell is the deafening wail of a child accompanying every insult, every furious, careless word that escapes your mouth. Hell is the empty threat he took as a promise. Hell is holding his hand and realizing it's no longer as comfortable as it used to be. Hell is the sadness weighing on your apartment, so palpable you could wrap your fingers around it and try to snap it--but you can't, because hell is already there. Hell is the silence, the eternal quiet screaming in your ears, as you pack your suitcase, as you stuff in old photographs trapped behind the cracked glass of their picture frames. It's the painful need to sit still and concentrate on breathing because you suddenly forgot how to. It's looking around you, seeing the stripped bed, the empty closet, the unsettling dust floating along the light filtering through the misted windows. Hell is falling out of love.

I could go on about hell forever, and I would never be able to enumerate all of them because there can only be so many words that can describe hell, and there are too many people in this world who see different kinds of hell. I cannot accurately define hell, I don't know much about it. I cannot claim to have seen hell, because I've never been to a place like it before.

But I know that hell is cold.

Because hell is not always made of fire.

People are so scared to be forgotten that they engrave there name on benches beside the words "in memory of" as if in some way they may live on through metal plastic and wood. In a room full of strangers is anyone themselves? Maybe just everyone. Yourself is unattainable when surrounded by others. A tree is pure and strong until it is climbed and chopped. Many would rather the abuse instead of solitude. To be alone is not lonely, it is full. To be full is lonely unless it is shared. To share a mere sliver leaves two hungry stomachs. Instead, remain in solitude until bliss and self reliance is achieved. Once you can be alone with no guilt or burden, then you are ready to open your veins to the blood of another.

You still look beautiful
despite rough finger tips,
arms thin as twigs
and dry cracked lips.
Take a breath
you've done far too much crying,
dry your cheeks,
try to forget you're dying.

I've never been quite crazy
or ever fully sane
but I swear to God I've seen you here
on a day when there was rain.
Did we share the same umbrella
or maybe a cup of tea,
I tend to fall in love
with all the eyes I see.
Tears clouded corners
of your softened emerald eyes;
your fist hit the table,
blood began to rise.
The record player sang and wailed
a million broken songs
and in a flash I saw your hands
and knew I was all wrong.
History reminded me
you were no face unknown,
I know those emerald eyes,
those hands have held my own.
I can't recall who did what
beneath that hazy sky
but my fingertips warn
it's not worthy of a try.
I turn to escape your haunting eyes
but notice, heavy with regret
your crooked smile as I catch a whiff  
of tangerine and cigarette.

I can't tell if everyone else around me is normal
Or if I'm stuck in my own mind
Everyone makes a big deal about grades,
                                                 The things people say,
                                                 If you're in an advanced class.
But nobody takes the time to notice the small movements of people
        What makes them happy,
        How their eyes look when they laugh.
People only care about what you can do and what you can be
Everyone else is a brick. A grey, dull brick. Manufactured to think that if you don't do good in school, your life will be miserable.
Your life may only be miserable when you work too hard and don't find time to experience the great things
        Late night runs to a local diner,
        The comfort of a good hug,
        Getting lost in books,
        Or getting caught in rain.
I'm not sure if everything is beautiful or if it's just the way I see it. Either way, I am in love with life.