The leaves are falling and so am I.
As everything around me dies I am able to see the spark in us again.
I feel warmth despite the bitter gust of wind against my skin.
Goosebumps form and I'm not sure if it's the wind or you.

It's temporary I tell myself.
I don't want to hurt you anymore.
In a few months when the sun returns I will find my way back.
I'm trying hard not to stray from where I've been.

This winter is harsh and not because it's my first one spent in Chicago.
Duty calls and what's good for me has gone with Uncle Sam.
Waiting for letters and phone calls that never come.
I've never been good with being alone.

Taking advantage of friendly gestures because I know where you stand.
Secretly wondering if the time will ever be right.
Telling myself it's not too far but wanting to go further.
I feel as if I'm no longer able to see the line between right and wrong.

Tonight you crashed your truck and I was last to know.
Words aren't making sense and this is the ******* poem I've ever written.
It's also the first time I've written in months.
You inspire me.

I don't know how to separate what is real or of the moment.
There's a tidal wave that's getting harder to push back.
Pretty soon the pressure will destroy an entire village
And I'm scared I'll be the only one standing among the wreck.

I have a lot of anger built up inside me. I'm angry at society's obsession with ***. Maybe I don't want to touch your skin. I want to touch your heart and your soul. I'm sick of feeling worthless because of the number of boys I've laid down with. I'm ready to stand up. It's time we all stand up for how we really feel. Now I'm not **** shaming, don't get me wrong. I'm a firm believer in doing what you want as long as it's what you really want to do.
I am angry because I let curiosity ruin my innocence and now I'm struggling just to feel okay. I don't want to be alone but take your hands off of me. Feel my words and caress my thoughts. Just be on the same plane as me because intellectual connection is as **** as it gets.

Hear not only my voice
but the intentions behind the confusion.
I ask because I'm curious,
not to make your job harder.
There's money and supplies, but
where is the passion?
Do you want me to succeed
or am I just another step on your
road to retirement.
Beautiful homes and tropical landscapes;
well I want a future too.
Be my guide to success.
Listen to me.

Memorizing lines
and times
a slave to the system.
If the bus leaves at four
what time will it arrive?
They never account for traffic
or a flat tire
or loved ones begging you not to go.
I've never heard my math teacher say
he's passionate about congruent angles,
or my science teacher say
atomic particles have her head over heels.
This is why I'm the kid looking out the window
dreaming about the trees and being told to pay attention.
But my attention is in the real world
where passion drips from every blade of grass
in the chilly morning dew.
The late night hum of fireflies in love
have got me falling so fast.
I'm reeling in the dead of night
and lusting over sunrise.

I was the proudest sister in the world.
You were cool
smart
popular.
You were strong
and I wanted to be
just
like you.

You never let mom wear you down
even when the alcohol wouldn't let her stand on her own anymore.
You were my hero and you were only 12 years old.

But somewhere along the line you disappeared.
Maybe it was after you moved out, or the first time you got arrested.
You abandoned me and I was only 12 years old.

I stood up for you as long as I could
and I love my niece with everything in me
but my hero no longer exists.

Slowly you let your habits eat you alive
and I can't find the life in you, for the life of me.
RIP to my big brother.

What do you do when there are no words to express
all the thoughts you've barely fathomed into a conscious stream?
Where do you go when the days that are supposed to be the best of your life turn into a bad dream?
How am I supposed to remain faithful when all I can do is feel angry?
Is this my conscience
or am I believing in some false witness that's been told to rule above me?
The fear of God has been instilled in me since birth
because my dad always told me that He was the measure of my worth.
But when I die do I just lie six feet underground,
or do I get wings and float among the clouds?
I'm not scared of dying, it's the scorching flames I fear;
the burning brimstone far from the ones I held dear.
As the swirling winds take my soul far below,
will my dad be in heaven saying the familiar
"I told you so."
I swear I'm not scared of death,
I could go anytime.
It's that I'm scared of a worse hell than I've been in
most of my life.
What is faith and how do you find it?
Because this crippling fear has got me crouching behind it.
I want to be strong in what I believe
but I'm having the hardest time with what the afterlife means to me.
If I'm being honest I don't feel what I should
But if I try hard enough

I think that I could.

But after 884 Sundays spent in the same pew
I still can't believe in what everyone wants me to.
So if I don't believe then why am I scared?
It's something to which a war could easily be compared.
The one above me died for the ones below me
but if he's working for me
why won't he show me?

A background noise
A slight ringing in your ears
Just enough to be annoying
But not enough to keep your attention.

Today I decided to climb up the shelves
in the closet in your bedroom
and sit next to the box of faded polaroids
you pretend don't exist anymore.

Except I broke the shelf and the box fell
and the contents spilled all over the floor
along with your words about how I am
always making stupid decisions.

I said I'd clean it up but I got distracted
by a certain faded polaroid that I swear was me.
1989- 16 years old it read and you looked
like you've never hated anything more than that camera.

It was then I realized your contempt is not towards me
but the fact that I remind you of yourself and you
have spent your whole life trying to escape what you
felt at sixteen.

I am sorry I followed in your footsteps
but you never taught me how not to.
Throw me back up on the shelf with
the rest of your faded polaroids.

As I sit staring at the "fasten seatbelt" light overhead
I can feel the endless possibilities of places I could go, people I could meet.
Today you asked me "you feel miserable here a lot don't you?"
You've never been more right.
And as I sit here on this **** plane in your **** sweatshirt I wonder if you know.
I wonder if you know how scared I am
of all the opportunities the fasten seatbelt light brings me.
Of all the opportunities you bring me.
I swear the way you look at me
while I'm in the passenger seat of your beat up car
on the way to the dinner that you'll buy me
and I'll pretend not to care about
is the same way I look at Columbia and blank notebooks.
The possibilities and beautiful what-ifs are spelled out
in the whites, blacks, and multiples shades of brown in your eyes.
And I am thinking to myself how beautiful this fasten your seat belt light is
but I am also thinking of how beautiful you are
and how you've never been given the chances or opportunities you deserve.
So as I sit here stirring in my just barely big enough seat
I am feeling things that not even the damien rice in my ears can suppress.
I am seeing every beautiful night I spent wishing I never had to go home.
I'm seeing all the miles you put on just wanting to talk to me a little longer.
I'm seeing the way you nod your head back and forth
and tap on your steering wheel to the beat
of your latest favorite pop punk song.
And I am seeing the tremble in my knee that you don't notice
when you say that my laugh instantly makes you smile
because in all reality every waking moment I spent frowning at you
was because I was hoping that if I convinced myself
that we were no good then you would believe it too.
I realize all these things as I sit in seat 20E
on a delayed flight to Orlando
and all I want to do is parachute down to whatever tiny
secluded unknown cafe you're spending your evening jamming
to a local set of bands drinking something fruity you've never tried before.
And just like that drink I want to run down your throat
to the deepest parts of your gut
and permeate through your blood stream.
I want to run like oxygen infused flames through your system.
I'm still sitting in this cramped seat on damien song number five
staring at this fasten seatbelt light and all the possibilities
and I just have one thing to say: fasten your seatbelt with me.
Fasten your seatbelt and see all the possibilities that I see.
Fasten your seat belt and move three states closer to that dream
you've been dreaming since we were neighbors on that worn down block
where we learned to hate our parents.
Fasten your seatbelt and run away with me.

My heart beats roughly 100 times per minute.
Three years ago I would have said that roughly
99 of those were for
you.

“There’s just something about you,”
you said.

My heart beats roughly 100 times per minute.
Two years ago I would have said that roughly
99 of those were for
you.

“If you mean it, then I love you too,”
you said.

My heart beats roughly 100 times per minute.
One year ago I would have said that roughly
99 of those were for
you.

“She’s just a friend,”
you said.

My heart beats roughly 100 times per minute.
Today I would have to say that exactly
98 of those are for
you.

Unless you ask for one more.

“I’m sorry,”
you say.

One.
I loved you because you were the first boy to show me attention.
You were relentless and I guess I liked being liked.
Dizzy with the idea of loving you that I forgot to show you I did.

Two.
I loved you because you were the first boy to touch me.
Miss moral highground fell victim to her first taste of lust.

Three.
I loved you because you loved me.
Always providing me with the reassurance I needed,
until some other girl needed reassurance too.

Four.
I love you because what better time is there than the present?
For the fourth year in a row I crumble under your apology.
Empty words never sounded better.

Home is an interesting concept to me.
I always swore I’d never make a person my home
Because when that house catches fire
You’ll have lost things no insurance company can replace.

When your favorite pictures and records have all melted
You’ll find that you never made copies of any of them.
Now what’s left are the memories that too are faded by
The smoke and ashes, product of a flame burned too bright.

Well this home caught flames quicker than flash paper
And I can’t seem to find my favorite mixtapes.
I guess the sparks were more than we could handle
And suddenly this home was just a house turned wildfire.