I've found it,
My fatal flaw:
I'm a poet.

I romanticize and attempt to find beauty in the most hideous of situations,
Even when the beauty ceases to exist.
I fall in love with my own ideas and expectations,
To try to block out the reality.

So there it is,
My fatal flaw:
Poetry

I love it,
*but it kills me

I want to believe that you went home,
And thought about me.
And us,
And all of the places we go could,
Songs we could listen to,
And long late night drives that wouldn't be so lonely.

But realistically,
You probably banged some other ******* your couch,
Not even remembering my name,
While I dreamt beautiful things about you.

While all of my friends will tell me no,
I say yes because I can't watch you go.

While all of my friends won't like you at all,
You're quite the catch, and it's worth the fall.

And though I've just met you, I can't help it, you see,
I'm thinking about you, hoping you're thinking about me.

And I'm constantly reminded of what I had,
Constant torture of what I lost.

So many opportunities,
Yet I've never felt so stuck.

We'll travel down the old stone path,
Wondering why these things started to change.
We'll walk along the old train tracks,
Thinking of all the words that we once sang.

And it's so hard to stay so young forever,
School and work and life get in the way.
You're just like the last day of summer,
Days feel like weeks, weeks feel like a day.

We'll run amongst the old beech trees,
And count our blessings, dreading August's end.
We'll sing about another time,
When we can be together once again.

And it's so hard to stay so young forever,
School and work and life get in the way.
You're just like the last day of summer,
Days feel like weeks, weeks feel like a day.

I'm not depressed,
I'm just misplaced.
It's not disaster,
Just disgrace.
So get me out,
Before I break.
I'm not depressed,
I'm just misplaced.

Isn't it weird
To think
That behind a pale a white shell,
Is a life?
Occasionally,
A cake,
Or an omlet,
Or thousands of other foods,
That I will spare your time and not list.
But isn't it weird to think,
Of the possibilities behind an egg?

You're like an old sweater.
I only see you when it's cold.
Each stitch, braid, and knit,
Delicately weave our memories,
Into a string of warmth and comfort.

But it's an old sweater.
Meaning that there are holes,
And places where the stitches become undone,
Like the relationship that we once shared.

So yes,
You're an old sweater.
Maybe one that I bought at a thrift shop,
Because even though I wore you,
You were never really mine.

The small town,
Perfect place to sit and watch life go by.
The high school halls,
Wide and barren,
Perfect place to waste away.

I feel like I'm sinking,
Or is the ground rising?
Higher and higher,
I fall deeper below.

I feel like I'm losing,
Or is everyone winning?
Grabbing and taking,
Oh, where will I go.

Feelings are thoughts that come alive.
And thoughts are feelings we try to deny,
But in the end it's just a lie.
No where left for us to hide.

So here I am...
Trying to construct a plan,
A masterpiece,
A map of words to unravel the chaos of my thoughts.  
The mind does not stop.
The mind does not go back.
The mind does not erase.

And it was nice being away from my personal hell for a few weeks. Not a care in the world, not a cloud in the sky, only millions of stars and trillions of opportunities. Nothing to regret, nothing to dread. Nothing tying me down, like the dreary place in which I've returned. Because there's school, and work, and sometimes life gets in the way of our happiness, and it's hard to make our happiness our lives.

Middle of the night outside of the bar,
No one with me,
Other than the dead cellphone in my pocket.
This isn't where I should be,
But it gave me time to think,
And I came to the conclusion,
That it had been far too long since I'd felt so alive.

Went home for three weeks,
Never smiled more than I did there.
Seeing you there,
Being with you there,
Kissing you there,
And leaving you there.
Yes, I went home for three weeks,
And though I was never raised there,
I grew there,
And each day,
I grow to miss it.

Dear Cole,
I can't say I've ever been in love with anyone who I've ever met, nor can I say that I've ever met anyone named Cole... I think.
So that's why I'm writing you...because maybe we'll fall in love.
You're out there somewhere, Cole, and that's probably not even your real name, but you could be anywhere. Thousands of miles away, or even down the street.
Either way, I'll keep looking for you, and I guess I can only hope that you're looking for me, too.

Someday, I'd like to be by your side.
Safely wrapped in your arms,
Staring into your stupidly handsome grin.

If I wrote it in a letter,
If I sang it in a song.

If I could look into his deep blue eyes,
And tell him just how long.

If I could paint it in a picture,
Of a hand or simple touch.

If I could focus on his big bright smile,
And tell him just how much.

If I could simply tell him,
Tell him that I do,

Perhaps just in that moment,
He'd say he loves me, too.

I thought it was lovely,
When the words rolled off of your lips,
Into my ear,
And broke my heart.

I thought it was lovely,
Because though you were causing me pain,
No one in the world,
*could've looked so good.

I'm sick of singing alone.
I want harmony,
And I crave your voice.

I can feel myself slipping.
That feeling of self pride,
Now replaced with self doubt,
Serves as a constant reminder.
To remind me that I'm going down.

What must I do,
To fall out of love with you?
Because I can clearly see,
As you fall out of love with me.

I think I knew.
I think I've always known.
As a child,
I always felt out of place.
Every little spelling test,
Or macaroni art project felt insignificant,
small.
And I knew back then,
And I know now.
I think I knew,
I think I've always known.

Running.
Circles and lines that are supposed to help my
weight loss.

Running.
Circles and lines that allow me to forget.
And for a moment, I feel
*weightless

I'm afraid to leave,
To turn around
Because I know it,
I just know that you'll come back
And I don't want to miss you again.

Perhaps it was the glance; that glimmer of hope, filled with millions of stars reflecting in his grey-blue eyes; the way that the whole galaxy flashed before me as he blinked. Black hole pupils, pulling my breath away.

Cold hands,
Cold heart.
Ready to grab,
Never to give.
Icebox soul,
Broken to break.

Where do I even begin?
What can I even say?
Well I suppose I could start with hello,
If your eyes don't stop my breath upon seeing you...
Then yes,
Hello might do....
But is that enough?

Perhaps I should begin with a story,
About a girl,
About me.
About how amazing a boy is,
But he never sees.

Darling,
It's you.
Always has been,
Always will.

Sometimes she hid in a book,
Or swam in the melodies of her favorite songs.
Sometimes she shelted her feelings behind walls,
And ran between the stars.

But all stories end,
And she'd drown in the music.
So when the façade tumbled down,
Her run became a sprint.

And then he was there.
In front of me.

And then it was over.
And he was gone.

Like autumn turns leaves,
Winter will breathe
Cold on our necks,
Snow in our paths.
Wherever she goes
All that I know about us,
Is that beautiful things never last
That's why fireflies flash

This town seems friendly,
This town looks nice
This town is a trap,
*And looks are deceiving.

Lined paper,
Staff paper, actually.
Flipping through the blank pages,
Viewing hundreds of songs that have yet to be written.
Homesick for places never visited,
Longing for those never met,
The pen hits the paper,
Unleashing the madness.



*And so it begins.

Today I walked into Barnes and Noble to buy my summer reading book which just so happens to be super thick and its boring (**** me now!) Anyways, while we're there, out of curiosity, I asked if they had any John Green books (because everywhere else, they're either sold out or on hold) and they did. The lady brought me to a table. A few of my friends had recommended his works. Scanning the table of books, unsure of what to chose, a guy walks up to me. He looks about my age, maybe a year or so older. He's pretty cute, which is quite the pleasant surprise because usually guys don't talk to me. He says, pointing to The Fault in Our Stars, "I couldn't help but kind of overhear you talking, but I read this and it was amazing." He points at Looking for Alaska. "My girlfriend read this... said it was pretty good." So I say thanks and something awkward like 'I'll have to check it out,' and get The Fault in Our Stars. This small gesture has restored my hope in our generation. The guys in my school are mostly arrogant airheads with no taste in music, in my opinion, anyway. In addition to this experience with a stranger, today, while at a shopping center, I saw a girl wearing a 5 Seconds of Summer shirt, as I had mine on, too. I complimented her and she smiled and said, "Thanks, you too." This small gesture has also restored my hope in our generation. Today I learned that not everyone ***** and that makes me really happy. I guess that if you put yourself out there, ever so slightly, in the right places, you might learn things or make new friends.  What if I'd talked to the girl about 5SOS? Or asked the guy about other books he's read? There are so many opportunities every single day to improve the quality of our lives and we pass them up, because they're things that are thought of as small, but can have huge impacts. I believe that if each and everyone of us tried, just a little bit, to talk to  strangers, the world would be a better place. Not everyone wants to hurt you. I'm not saying to invite some random person  into your house, but to talk to people with common interests, or compliment someone on their shirt. Little things like that, as they did to me, can make someone's day. I walk to my mom with a pile of books. She turns to me and says, "Since when did cute boys talk to you at bookstores?"

Home.

Home.

It's not where you eat,
Where you dress,
Where you sleep,
Where you wake,
Where you live.

Home.

Home.

It's where you belong.

So whether you're there now,
On the way,
Or your journey hasn't begun...
Your house now is nice,
But you'd give anything to get out.

Home.

It's where you belong.
And it's calling.
Waiting as patiently
as
you
are.

And they all laugh at her dreams. She laughs along, too, acting like each giggle and 'never' doesn't feel like someone stabbing her repeatedly. But just one more "You'll never make it." One simple "He'll never love you." is enough for her to pop.

Suddenly,
she lets go of everything she held on for.