I* want you to dance


with me forever, breathe my

air and love the pretty

night as I do

to take in every


yellow sunset streaked with

orange and red

u**s for eternity or


                for as long as you'll have me.

It's funny. The way I feel when I see fresh line paper. Untouched and calling to me. I love it. So many possiblilities. So many beautiful things to be written. What's funnier is that when I get a new notebook, it sits there for weeks. And so it stays untouched. The funniest thing is I love to write and get things out so I can look at them in proof that these words exist. In some way. Some form. I don't know why it's so difficult. I know enough metaphors and hyperboles. All the contents to make my writing swell. Readable. But I honestly think what throws me off is that no one is reading. No one is connecting with my writings like I do to Chibosky and O'Hara. No one is waiting to love my next chapter because they haven't even seen the first. I am uninspired with endless suroundings of inspiration. And no one falls in love with a bore.

We fell in love. Nothing special. It would make more sense, though, if Love were the name of an active volcano. Having been destroyed by love was harsh. As well as listening to the sound of certain death in his heart's song, followed by incineration slowly creeping. We fell anyway though.
I, harder than he.

Placid, he sits.
                             But where he lays, it's WW3


                  *"Be still, though"

Sometimes there's just no one.
To hold, to love, to want.
Sometimes there's just nothing.
To feel, to have, to carry.

Sometimes there's just someone.
To fight, to hate, to forget.
Sometimes there's just something.
To throw, to punch, to discard.

That's okay, too.

There were certain things he couldn't hide from
like the fact that the ocean only loves him when he's drowning
like the fact that rope fit best on his neck
and the fact that razors sing louder than his crush whom he heard as he walked by the rest room

He didn't know that

There were certain things she couldn't hide from
like the fact that she gets closer to her mother when her veins leak
like the fact that alcohol tastes better when it's fighting to go down
and the fact that the ground wants her more than her crush does when she's five stories high

It's Saturday morning and he cuts his wrists over the ocean and ties the rope tight on the dock and jumps.
It's Saturday morning and she cuts her wrists on top of her five story apartment building, breathes in two bottles of tequila and jumps.

They found each other as their souls headed forward.
Funny, they thought as they told their stories.

"I didn't have to jump"