Two decades in and already swamped with memories
And only the desire to make new ones.
Walking to class or coming home
People ask me what I want to do,
What do I want to do with the rest of my life?

I can feel my throat constrict and my heart skid,
Don’t they understand how much of a commitment that is?
The rest of my life.

And what if it’s not something I want to do, but something I want to be?

I’m 20 years old and don’t ever have my head in this atmosphere,
So how can I ever hope to decide the rest of my life?

I want to write with the raindrops that kiss the grass
Or sleep on the waves of the ocean
And hold the stars in my hands.
I want to climb the highest tree or the highest mountain
Just so I can jump and call it flying.
I want to read the faces of others
And put them into stories.
But mostly I want to run,
Not literally,
But running still.
I want to catch time as it passes by
And go to all the places in the pictures
Enjoying adventure upon adventure
Until the end of my days,
Surrounded by the select few that I love.

I want to be nothing short of me,
And who I am isn’t a constant that can be applied to a formula,
It’s constantly changing, growing, fighting, loving.
How dare you ask me to define what I want to be,
When it’s plain that I don’t even know who I am?

I’m 20 years old and what I want to do for the rest of my life
Is nothing sort of a mystery, an adventure,
Like a storyline leading to an epic plot twist,
But it’s wrapped in uncertainty
And the only way to find out where it’s going
Is to keep reading the book.

Changes happen quickly
That’s what happens when you have a fickle heart
Oh to be human
Oh to feel –
But wait, aren’t those the same?

A complete paradigm shift
Like an earthquake of the mind
Leaves wreckage in scattered memories,
Beautiful trinkets lost in the rubble of broken homes.

What a metaphor for the heart!

Can you dare to believe that someone will heal you?
How could you put that weight on someone’s shoulders?
Your pain is yours to bear
Despite sweetened words and rosy promises.

You can’t fix anyone from the inside out either.
Eyes only see the surface,
Only see the façade, unintentional or otherwise.
Truth does not exist for you to see.

Truth. What is truth in love?
Is there truth in love?
Or is love a woven contradiction of hopes and fears,
Bent on the naïve wishes of teenage girls longing to be adored by boys with bright blue eyes and midnight hair?

Does the heart have a shape?
Curves and straight edges?
I think it’s a gooey blob that drips across the barroom floor
And if you’re not careful to clean up the mess you leave behind
You leave yourself behind.

Funny how that works. Ironic perhaps, but definitely cynical.

And if you don’t clean up like your mother always told you to,
Then it’s really your fault if you ask me.
Shouldn’t you know better by now?
After years of hearing what’s good for you and what isn’t
Why do you still have to be so stupidly stubborn?

You’re wrong, just face it.
Your heart is a useless lump that pumps hot red blasts through your body
That splashes pink across your face and lips
And catch his eye.

But don’t say I never told you, no don’t you dare say I never told you
That this silly little love story would end,
That it wasn’t even a love story to begin with.
Hell, it wasn’t even a story -
Just a ****** poem written in a lost-in-the-rubble diary that’s falling apart.

Yeah, I told you so.

She’s a mystery,
A mosaic of broken pieces and complications,
Experiences he’ll not soon understand,
All sewn together by strands thin as spider’s web.

She's something fragile
Yet has walls so high.
He’s determined to knock them down,
One by one.

She hardly ever speaks,
All her thoughts are secrets that she keeps.
Slowly, gradually she’ll give away pieces of the puzzle
For him to put together.
Gently she does this, quite possibly terrified
That he’ll run away, in the end.

She doesn’t know that he wants to put the pieces into place,
That he’ll trace the scars, smooth the seams,
Until she doesn’t want him anymore.

And that is what he fears,
That one day, he’ll be too much for her,
And she’ll retreat into herself again.

Just like the way she turns on her heels
When their paths split.
She says “See you later,”
Never goodbye,
And always turns to look back at him
When she thinks he's not looking.

But one day, she might just leave without a sound
Walking pointedly in another direction,
Away from him
And never look back.

Wisps of memories grace my mind
Like a cold mist in the morning
Upon my skin.

Phantom sensations of lips and hands,
Threads of touches that grazed my face
Make me smile.

A voice deep and comforting in tone,
Whispers of sweet words ringing like echoes
In my ears.

Images of you, fading and blurry,
Stand where you stood, smiled where you sat
In my mind’s eye.

Dreams of fantasies that never came true
Haunt me as I struggle between what was
And what wasn’t.

Wonderings of where you are now,
How you feel, and if you think of me
Often or never.

Realizations that goodbye was inevitable
And hurt because you disappeared so quickly
Like a ghost.

Shouting a hello to a dark and empty room,
Hearing my cry echo back to where I stand
Alone without friends in the space of my mind
Facing the harsh truth that my soul demands.

I look for sunshine even though I only see grey.
A level deep within takes pleasure in the despair
Of the vast empty sky, bereft of warmth and light.
Sitting here I loathe that which I feel I cannot repair.

Curled up on the bed, clutching the sides of a hollow body,
Wishing for comfort, for a companion to understand,
I know that I’ll be right here again tomorrow,
Even though there are some willing to lend a hand.

Because this darkness has become familiar,
Making it a comfortable, though destructive place.
I unleash the usual wealth of tears and hatred,
For frustration with who I am and who I’m not is a losing race.

Rubbing at the itchy tearstains on already-red cheeks,
I remind myself that I am not alone and that I am strong.
But I no longer wish to believe that for how can it be true,
When I’ve been crushed under this weight for so long?

Pain is a feeling, which is better than feeling nothing.
Crying for a faraway love, for feeling lost in my dreams,
Shattered under the expectations of others (and of myself),
Spiritless, with no motivation to sew the torn seams.

Ironic really, how this feeling can hurt so much,
Yet be craved with an incredibly forceful need.
Like an addiction, knowing that it is wrong,
But still I always choose the mind-numbing ****.

For it takes away the hard reality of life
Allowing an escape into a world surreal.
Because that seems better than the truth
Of a world that I can no longer feel.