I met you tonight.
You smelled nice
and I sat next to
you for two hours.
Sure, there was a
fifteen minute break.
But so what? Your
bangs hung straight
across your forehead
and you skirt lay
loosely around your
thighs. Your sweater
clung to you body
and you clung to my
mind. I know your
name and I know
your face but I know
not you.

It was your first time going to a show and you told me you felt like a white crayon.
It was my thirteenth show and I told you white crayons looked very nice on any color paper but white. So why limit yourself?

You had your legs
crossed and your
foot kept touching
my calf and instead
of recoiling I let it
happen. I talked to
you and when I took
my coat off it flailed
in your face and I
said "I'm sorry, sorry."
And you curled your
mouth into a cute
smile and told me it
was really okay, and
then the show was very
good and how many
have I been to. It's funny
how you're cute and I'm
me and you laughed
when I said stupid
things and I let our
legs touch and I even
held the door open for
you and said "Goodnight,
Lady. See you next Monday."
And you said "Goodnight,
Nolan. If fate wills it,
so it shall be." And we
laughed and I begged fate
to will it.

Pale Blue Eyes began the moment our socks came off.
It may only be a five minute song but it felt like an eternity.
Our bodies were cold and wet from the October rain.
Our hips met just as Lou Reed sang "I thought of you as my mountain top."
A feeling of warm rushed through my body and I'll never forget it.
"Thought of you as my peak," as I looked into your dark green eyes.
We fell onto the bed and the pain went away.
There was no headache that had clouded my mind,
the coldness from the rain was replaced with warmness from our love.
The wetness of the rain was replace with the friction of our beings.
****** started playing as you began to yell
and my muscles gave out.
We stayed there until morning,
with The Velvet Underground on repeat.
We fell asleep happy and we woke up happy.
We were two very different people but for a single night and there onward we are the same.
One in the same.
Love tied our strings together and put it in a nice double knot with loops in it.

Pale Blue eyes played as our socks came off
and it still plays now that the lights are off.

Withdrawl means different things for different drugs.
For my drug it means irritability, headaches, and hunger.
There are ways to prevent it.
I could chew sunflower seeds or **** on a lollipop or ride a bike.
But I'd rather smoke.
I'd rather pick a half smoked cigarette out of an ashtray, lightly burn the end of the filter (to **** germs. Gotta keep it healthy.) and smoke it, than chew sunflower seeds.  
I'd rather jump out my window at two AM, walk two blocks, reach into the cab of a pickup and take a pack of cigarettes than **** on a lollipop.
I'd rather ditch school, say I'm too sick to go, stay home and smoke cigarettes and read a book all day, than ride a bike.
And I do.
And I do.
And I do.
Yes, I do.

The old man sighed and jammed his freshly rolled, freshly lit cigarette into the ash tray.
"Too many cigarettes before bedtime oft' keep an' old man like me up all night."
The young man put out his cigarette as well, gently weeping inside over the wasted tobacco.
"Aye, a youngin' like myself as well."
The conversation had been going slightly south ever since the young man made the mistake of asking about his counterparts first wife. "She died," he had said "One of them December o' 2012 suicides that plagued the big cities such as this."
The young man remembered how he had looked out the window at this point a bit too nostalgically.
"She was crazy," he had added "I knew it the day I slipped the ring on and I know it now."
They dropped the subject and began talking about The War, coincidentally another touchy subject.
"Most of my friends died, and if you've read your history books you know it was not courage or chivalry that killed them but the ignorance and fear that our country breathed when drafting all the young men."
He had escaped with his life, which he believed was garbage. he told of how he had hid in the sewers while the long thought peaceful Canadian's swarmed over the East coast. While his friends died he ate rats. While the war machine chugged he was cowering.

"Aye, I see how you looked at that stoke, though."
"Pardon?" The young man had been deep in thought of the conversation they had been having.
"How old are you anyway?"
"19 on the 9th."
"And still not a whisker on your chin, aye?"
"Aye."

He told of many more battles. Some he fought in, others he cowered under.
"And one, that I cowered over. I passed out in the helicopter, do-it-please-yah."
He told of his second wife, a bit more fondly and romantically than his first wife.
She had passed away not 8 months before the young man visited him for the first time and that was 6 months past.

He showed scars, from the prison camps.
He rolled cigarettes from his poke pouch.
He admitted forgetting the face of his father.

Or at least help me die.
But I guess these are the same thing.
Whoops.

I wonder if they're happy.
They sure do seem so.
They're always talking about stealing their daddy's Jaguars and having beer blasts and getting in to fights and being bros and getting tan and buying new swimsuits and getting a call from different modeling agencies and crashing cars and smoking cigarillos and drinking fancy wine and going to their beach house and deciding between Harvard and Yale or Porsche and Mustang and did we win the football game and making new friends and oh my God Stacy actually said that and dude, I totally ****** her and my math teacher is such a ***** and my parents are putting me into boarding school and check out my new Jordans and did you watch the sunset last night?

I don't know if they're having fun, but it sure seems like it.

*I wonder if they're having fun. It sure seems like it.
They're always talking about hitch hiking to the next city over and going to shows and drinking PBR and sneaking out at night and yeah dude, that party was sick and my tumblr is so famous right now and check out my new denim jacket and smoking **** and getting in to fights and lifting cigarettes from stores and Austin and Katie slept together and Kyle broke edge and I'm still working at McDonalds and yeah I'm still driving my '93 Ford Ranger and smoking hookah and watching Mean Girls and yeah I love the ocean and check out my new Kicks and did you watch the sunset last night?

I don't know if they're having fun, but it sure seems like it.

Sometimes I think about you
and I get sad.
I think about you being here with me, on this couch
and I get sad.
I think about the way you lied
and I get upset.
I think about the way you manipulated
and I get disgusted.
I think about the way you loved
and I feel cheated.
I think about the way we continue to lie
and I am disgusted.
I think about the way you pushed me aside
and I am disgusted.
I think about you
and I feel cheated, disgusted, sad, upset, lied to and loved.
I feel.
And that is never a good thing.

You tell me it's all good.
I love you and that's good.
We're friends.
You love me and that's good.
We're friends.

He treats you badly.
But Jesus Christ, so do I.
I'm writing poetry about you and I feel guilty.

You have a bad habit of dating guys who treat you bad.
I could go down the list and can do it well.
I've treated you with nothing but love.

You said to me that I tell you you're pretty more than he does.
That he never does.
And I rarely do.

He's a nice guy and I like him.
But where is he going?
But where am I going?

I'm sorry but I'm not sorry.
Am I violating some kind of friendship barrier by speaking my mind?
Am I breaking some unwritten rule?

Well I hope not.
I'd hate to lose you.
After all, you're all I got.
*And I love you and it's all good

The world is absurd and nothing is of value.
There is no meaning in these daily rituals.
All these petty relationships and petty jobs and pathetic people they have no value.

There is no such thing as love.
Your mother will never love you.
You are a broken ****** and don't let anyone lie to you.
When people say children are a blessing knock their teeth out; they are wrong.
When people tell you there is a god knock their teeth out.
When people tell you there is no god knock their teeth out.

No matter how many people surround you, you will die alone.
Just as you came into this world.
Whatever god you prayed to will not welcome you with wide arms.
Whatever hell you feared will not be burning.
Whatever world you left will not miss you.

You are alone in this world.
The only thing you can confirm is yourself.
You are real.
You are here.
Nobody else is.
Everything revolves around you.
You.

You think of yourself as smart, attractive and courageous.
I am here to tell you to knock your teeth in; you are wrong.
When you sleep the world stops.
You.
You.
You.
*You.

****, this pizza's good*
Shut up Nolan, you're high.

Steal yourself my dear.
Bite your tongue and not your lip.
We shall begone by dawn and forever more.

This place holds nothing more for us.
This town is full of memories hollowed by hate.
Steal yourself my dear.

Quick kisses in the halls.
In the theater.
Behind the gym.
At the football game.
At the parties.
In abandoned houses.

There is nothing for us here but quick kisses.
Lost feelings.
And the past.
Most of all the past.

I used to play with Army Men
until I learned what an Army meant.
Until I learned the evil they carried out,
following orders is no excuse.
Freedom is no excuse.
Security is no excuse.

The reasons are simple: hate, greed, ignorance, fear.

People forget that the English Settlers killed ten times more Native Americans than the amount of people killed during the September 11th Attacks.
They just forget.

They forget about the terrorist tactics our founding fathers employed to reach victory.
They forget about the terrorist tactics our leaders employ today to reach victory.
They just forget.

He finally nodded his head and everything became white.
White sheets.
White pillow cases.
White girl with light blonde hair.
White skin naked in the white sunlight.
White curtains.

She was sitting on her knees by his side as he lay on his back.
She noticed he had awoken so he kissed him.
Not a passionate, love filled, **** kiss. Simply a good morning kiss.

He awoke with an absurd sense of wetness.
His family thought it funny to roll down the window and allow the cold rain outside to splash upon his face as the landscape rushed by.
Good morning sleepy head, they said.

He imagined the white girl with blonde hair saying that after kissing him into consciousness as he nodded his head back and again, fell asleep.

I actually thought about what I would do if this exact thing happened.
I thought about how I would be cool and pop a cigarette in my mouth all slick and say "Sup"

I would be a ******* lady killer. The hateful and sad feelings from before, during and after our relationship will be burned down with that cigarette.

We'll wonder what it's like to be inside a burning ember.
We'll talk about how we're turning into Holden Caulfield.

And about how Hemingway is God.
And cummings is the best.

We'll do all these things and everything will be perfect.
Our thoughts will be put to rest and our broken hearts will be mended.

We will finally go to sleep and all will be well.
There will be love in the valley and mountains and  the strings of our collective being.

Yes, I'm sick of the world
and all that it holds.

I'm tired of living this meaningless existence
and going nowhere fast.

I'm sick of looking at girls
and being filled with longing.

I'm tired of looking at the past
and wondering what went wrong.

I'm sick of being sad
and I'm tired of being mad.

I'm tired of this pretentious happiness
and this emotion oppression.
--
--
--
I don't want to wake.
I just want to sleep.

I don't want to fight
I just want to drink.

I don't want to hear your *******
I just want to put in my headphones.

I don't want to feel
I just want to forget
about all of this world (all of you) and all it holds (all I remember of you)

Stop. Please. Can't you see at all how this could hurt me?
Underneath this broken frame there is a beating heart. And you're not helping.
Rage is a very despicable feeling. I don't like it.
Very near talking. Spilling. Overloading. It almost feels right.
I** know not why these feelings persist. They are ghosts and I am going to exercise them.
Valiant efforts are useless. Hatred and sadness always win. Always.
And no amount of love I bring, I'm always afraid of the hate my heart brings.
Love is a myth. You will never feel it. Nor will I. Give up.

Everything about you makes me sick. I can't stand feeling this way.
Never did I think this would happen. These thoughts would come back. They were gone.
Deliver me from this darkness. I beg you. Bring me forth from the shadows.
Stop. Please. Can't you see at all how this could hurt me?

Today I walked into a used book store
looking for anything that could distract.

The air was cool,
the atmosphere serene.

I walked down the isles and looked at nothing in particular.
I found myself in the poetry section.

I looked up and saw cummings.
My favorite. our favorite

I pick it up and leaf through. Painful memories come flooding like blood into the syringe.
Make it stop.

I began walking towards the door when a familiar song comes on.
"Oh baby baby it's a wild world,
it's hard to get by just upon a smile."

I can't stand to be in this place any longer.
I can't stand to be in this ******* town with these stupid ***** and these stupid bookstores and these stupid vegans and these stupid ******* kids and these stupid cool kids and these stupid writers and these stupid stoners and skaters and singers and football players and drama kids and choir kids and band kids and these stupid ******* Ag kids.
I can't stand it.
I need to get it.
I need my strings to melt.
I need this towns grip on me to lighten up.
I need your grip on me to lighten up.

please, you gotta let me go
*You gotta let me go

Jusst going to float
down the stream
nicknamed The Best Years of My Life.

Just going to lay on my back
and soak up some sun
and try not to worry to much.

Just going to twiddle my thumbs
and have some fun
chilling out, relaxing, maxing all cool...

Just going to free my mind
and not think about you,
or life and all the grief it holds.

Just going to float down the stream that my brightly colored Strings are gently caressed in.
And relax.

A boy named Jake was so obsessed with finding a different reality where he was truly himself that he created it in his brain and entered it through a doorway while he slept.

He knew he didn't need to knock but thought of it as polite.
The door wasn't answered with an opening, rather
an invite to open.
So the boy opened.

Inside he found himself in a desert. It was almost time for the sun to begin its setting.
He realized that his hand was still on the door **** so he released and then shut the door.
He turned back around.

There was a small house a football fields length away. He could see a well just to the left and a stable holding no animals on the right.
He began walking over.
He was thirsty.
And hungry.
And full of questions.

Arriving at the house he found water in the well.
Cold, dusty water.

Inside the house he found a pantry full of corn, bottled sunflower seeds, and a odd yellow grass wrapped in pouches.
He ate sunflower seeds and walked outside.

There he looked back to where the door is.
Or was.
At first he was alarmed
but then liked the idea.
He was stuck here.
He was free.

He slumped down against the house and began to doze off.

His dreams were filled of memories of this desert. Of growing up in this house and occasionally visiting the town some miles away.
This became his reality.
He was himself.

A man dressed in black approached.
He pretended to sleep.
The man came and went.
There was no food left in the pantry although the yellow grass was still there.
There was no water in the well.

He waited for nothing for days.
He slumped against the wall and fell asleep again.

He awoke to find a new man approaching him, from the direction the other man had came.
The direction of town. DOOR, his conscious screamed. He pushed it aside.

The man came.
He was on a quest for a tower.
He was nice.
Jake grew fond of him.
The man said he would stay, only for a little while.
He was pursuing the Man in Black.
He was pursuing the Dark Tower.
Jake knew the man would stay, however.
And he was happy.
He was *himself.

Curiosity.

I'm dared to knock.
The loose strings need to be tied and the answer lies just beyond the door.

Darkness.

Peering through the peep-hole I see nothing.
Just a constant nothing that is overwhelming.

Coldness.

Pressing my hand on the door I am shocked.
It is chilling and maddening and not be touched.

Curiosity.

The answer to my problem lies just beyond
or so it has been spoken.

Desperation.

I need an answer and it is very close.
Too close, and too unreachable.

Finality.

The handle is being turned and the coldness shrugged.
Whatever lies beyond will soon be found out.

Isolation.

Not but an everlasting Darkness and Coldness and Fringe.
Comprehension is an alien idea.

Unreality.

Words.
Look not to the stars for they hold not but lies. Look only to the past for their the answer dwells.

Frustration.

Lied to. Cheated. I sacrificed so much to come to this point.
There is nothing here for me.

Revelation.

This is the place to think.
This is the place to recall and understand and fix.

This is the place to tie my strings together

Hours go by.
The sun actually comes up and I realized it's not so barren in here.
There are memories.
Some written in books.
Some painted on canvas.
Some drawn in chalk.
Some acted out on video screens.

This place will allow my to tie the frayed strings of my being together.
This place will allow me to learn.
                                        to fix.

Sometimes I think about girls.
And I think about how they've hurt me and how I've hurt them.

Sometimes I get sad.
And I don't want to ever hold someone again.
I don't want to love.
More so, I don't want to hate.

There's this one girl.
I don't know these feelings I have for her.
She's cute.
She always says "Hi Nolan" and small talk ensues.
I think she's into me.
And I think I could ask her out on a date or something.

But then I think of where it could go.
We could have a ****** time and have it be awkward and not talk again.

We could have a good time and go on more dates and start getting all attached.
And then break up and hate each other.
Because no matter how much love I bring I'm always afraid of the hate my hears beats.

I don't believe it's possible to be with someone forever.
Eventually you'll get bored.
And angry.
And sad.

And she's so **** cute.
I want to love her.
I want to hold her when she's sad or happy or cold or scared or excited or in love.
I want to kiss the top of her forehead.
I want all of these things and I want them for an eternity.
oh well.

A boy named Jake and a girl named Lexi had never met before.
They had a class together last year, but neither one knew it at the time.
They both walked into their Sophomore Drama class for the first time, scared and apprehensive.
Lexi there five minutes before the final bell and Jake, seconds before the final bell.

Jake entered the class and quickly took the only seat on the floor not occupied by an unfamiliar face.
They all introduced themselves, all 27 of them, mostly Sophomores with a few Freshman, Juniors, and a single Senior.It was then, when Lexi said "Hi, my name is Lexis Marilyn Manchester and I go by Lexi," that he first noticed her.
She was cute, shoulder length blonde hair, a floral shirt and jeans, although Jake didn't notice those things at the time. Only her dazzling pale blue eyes, and angelic voice.

The guy sitting next to her didn't say his name at first, even though it was his turn. She tapped his leg and motioned toward the center of the circle the class had made in the Drama Room. Room I7.
He said "How.. uh, my name is Jacob Turner. I don't have a middle name, but I go by Jake."
He was cute. He had short, yet unruly brown hair, a white shirt with the letters "LDTA" on them and nice fitting black jeans. The only thing she noticed about him however were his mysterious pale blue eyes, and for some reason, lack of middle name.

Jake didn't even care that the class had laughed at his lack of middle name. The only thing of importance to him was that when he looked over, the cute girl named Lexis Marilyn Manchester, who went by Lexi, was looking at him. He quickly looked away as did she.

The class went on and neither Jake nor Lexi, made an attempt to talk to the other although they did steal careful looks often. The bell finally rung. It was a seventh period class, so school was over.

On his way home Jake thought of nothing but Lexi, and driving.
He stopped at a sign, only blocks from home. The traffic rushed by. The car behind him did not see his car. They pushed him into the oncoming traffic just as a big SUV hybrid drove by. The driver slammed the breaks but still did not manage to avoid hitting the drivers side door of the small, blue, beat up, Toyota.

The doctors say he was killed on impact.

That's what the school told the small group of friends who were asked to attend a quick meeting regarding the accident. Lexi went.

She thought about him everyday for the yest of the school year.
Even some over summer.
He never faded.
She wouldn't let him for some reason.

He was killed on impact but he never faded.

"I'm seventeen already sniffing blow; Tell my friends it's asthma every time I start to itch my throat."

When I cough it shakes me and I cannot stop.

Sometimes phlegm comes up.
Yellow, and brown, and gross.

My teeth are yellow, even though I brush them twice a day. I even floss.

My fingers nails crack and my left eye droops when I smile.

My teeth are too small for my mouth and my acne is inconvenient in all the wrong ways.
My eyes that were once dazzling and electric-blue are just a shade of gray.
My hair is starting to tint gray, mostly in the back; that's why I cut it.

My lungs ain't what they used to be.
My knees are knobby, misshapen and sore.
My vision is less then perfect, especially in my left eye and I drink too much soda and not enough water.
My **** is always yellow, my throat always soar, and my head always aching.
My tonsils are swollen so much that they block off half of my throat.

My shoulder hurts when I lift it above my head and my back tells me I always slept in a weird position.
My dreams are always nightmares and my thoughts are always self harming.

My cigarettes are always smoked too quick.
I'm too stubborn to smoke ****.
"No, I don't need it man, that **** is stupid."
But, it really is stupid.

My neck pops when I look up and locks when I look down.
My feet become soar after walking from one class to the left.

My heart hurts whenever I think about The Girl I Once Had.

I cry when I watch One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest.
(I'm only human.)

My life has been going on for only a little while, but my strings are frayed.
I mean, Jesus Christ, my back's sore.
What kind of old man garbage is that.

I mean, shoot, I even complain like an old man.

27/38                                                                  
                                                                  stop.
                                                   please                    please
                                ­     just                                                        just
­                       stop                                                             ­                     stop
                                     just                                                        just
­                                                  please         ­            please
                                                          ­         stop.
Can't you see you're killing me?
Can't you see that I'm not doing anything?
That I'm being the nice guy?
Can't you?

Memories
Are
Never
Here.
Always
Tomorrow.
­Tonight
Antagonizes
Nobody.

Before
Every
A­ttack.
Calm
H**atred

The Coldness brings hate
and sadness. The light is going out now
how much time is left?

Depression
epression
pression
ression
ession
ssion
sion
ion
on
n
­I'm turning into everything I promised myself I wouldn't be.
Everything I hate.
I'm losing all the values I've lived by.
All the values I've tried so hard to emulate.
I hate myself.
I hate this world.
I hate everyone in it.

I'm trying to be a better man.
The only person I have to prove it to is myself.
How about you?

Everything that I have is being taken from me.
The freedoms I once held dear are being stripped.
Everything a human being is entitled to is being stolen.
My happiness has been replaced with sadness.
Hatred.

The life that I had was so great.
It was filled with friends, food, and fulfillment.
I now have to struggle for all of these.
My friends are slowly becoming acquaintances.
The food is no longer filling and enjoyable.
My actions no longer make me feel good about myself.

Now I'm second guessing all the choices I make.

Their is a bright side though.
It shows through occasionally.
Looking into my sisters happy eyes.
Having a good times with my friends.
Doing the right thing because it's right.
No God is telling me to do these things.
No Bible is explaining why.

This is a good life.
I should be happy.
I'll add that to my list.

Silly You.                                
                                   Hypocrite
                                      ypocrite
        ­                               pocrite
                                        ocrite
          ­                               crite
                                          rite
            ­                               ite
                                           te
                                           e

You're such a hypocrite.
I don't know if it's intentional.
Only that it's true.

Oh, please don't drink, it's so bad for you, please, get better, please please blahblahblahblaaa...
Oh, don't mind me, just gonna get **** faced
just gonna finish the bottle,
and maybe another.
Don't mind me.
I'm not judging.
Silly yo, don't think that.
It's my birthday, whatever.

Well **** that.
Hypocrite.

I'll drink.
I'll write.
I'll hurt.
I'll do these things sober too, just watch me.
except drinking of course.
ha-ha.

Please, I'm an adult, blahblah, don't drink, blahblah

I'm sorry for everything.
Except for the things I'm not.
Which is, coincidentally, everything.

I hate you.
I hate you too.
Why did you let this happen?
Me? This was all you, baby.
Oh come on, don't give me that *******. From day one I said this was a bad idea but you kept pushing us along.
*******, you had just as big of a part in this as I did.
I guess so. But still, if you weren't such an emotional ******* train wreck this wouldn't have happened.
True, but if you weren't such a cold hearted **** we could have let her in. We could have loved her.
I know. Now stop making me feel bad you *******.
I'm sorry.
I love you.
I love you too.

I'm not blaming you.
Please don't let it come across as that.

Today I saw a picture of you that a friend posted.
You were at the river and you looked beautiful.
You told me to forget about you.
I did.
For about 3 hours.
And they were nice.
But then I saw that photo
and it drove me crazy.
I used to have you.
You used to be mine.

What I really need to forget is how much I love you.
All the good times we had.
All the love we made.
I need to forget it.

It's not your fault all of this happened, really.
I don't know who or what is at fault and I honestly don't care.

I just want to know why.
We were so good.
We were so happy.
We were so in love.
Now we hate each other.
You hate me.
And I hate you.

I'm not trying to blame you so please don't let it come across that way.
Please.

I want you to forget about me and be happy. Like you were today, if that picture is any indication.
So please
forget about me,
move on,
and be happy.

I'd trade your meaningless existence for a pack of cigarettes.
Don't think my hatred for you is anything special.
You're not special.
Just like the **** ups you hangout with.
Just like what you stand for.

I hope I'm coming across as rude because that's what you deserve.
You're a miserable ****.
The best thing you've ever done in life is inspire me to write.
And I thank you for that.
I give you a standing ovation.

Unlike at the theater, no one is yelling encore.
The hallow applause is nothing but good manners.
Something you were born without.
Never taught.
Never cared to learn.

Just roll over and die already.
It'd be the second best thing you've done in your worthless existence.

Angsty feelings portrayed with unflashy adjectives.
blah blah blah
Hateful words directed at people in general.
blah blah blah
Ranting about cigarettes like a pig.
blah blah blah
My music is better than yours because no one else likes it.
blah blah blah
Society *****.
blah blah blah
Quotes from pop-punk songs.
blah blah blah
Depressed ramblings.
blah blah blah
*****.
blah blah blah
Love *****.
You *****.
I ****.
******* *****.
blah blah blah blah...

When you finally get in bed,
                                                 do you go to sleep?
Or do you lie there and think about how much you've ****** up?
                                                                                                              who you've ******.
                                                                                                                                               who you've ****** up.
Does sleep come easy like it used to?
                                                              Of course not.

haha
How ******* stupid this is.
Why can't you just grow up?
After all, you are the adult.
I'm just a little boy and you ******* said it yourself.

I don't know why any of this happened.
                                                                    I don't know where we went wrong
                                                                                                                                or why.
I'm not that interested in finding out.
Just forgetting.

Why don't we make a deal.
I'll let you forget, if you let me forget.

"I guess I am doing a good job at biting my tongue."

If you only knew how much you were hurting me.
If only I could snap back with something equally as hurtful.

I wouldn't if I could.
It would be inappropriate.
Undeserved.
Regretted.

I'm sorry I've been so rude.
I'm sorry my cigarettes ran out,
I'm sorry I haven't been sleeping.
Plagued with nightmares of you.

I'm an *******.
But I will never apologize for that.
I will never apologize for who I am.
What I believe in.
What I do.

But most of all,
*I'm sorry

"I guess I am doing a good job at biting my tongue."

If you only knew how much you were hurting me.
If only I could snap back with something equally as hurtful.

I wouldn't if I could.
It would be inappropriate.
Undeserved.
Regretted.

I'm sorry I've been so rude.
I'm sorry my cigarettes ran out,
I'm sorry I haven't been sleeping.
Plagued with nightmares of you.

I'm an *******.
But I will never apologize for that.
I will never apologize for who I am.
What I believe in.
What I do.

But most of,
*I'm sorry

Strings.

Our world is never going to be enough.
We want to know what's beyond,
what comes after,
what was before,
and I 'm no different, don't get me wrong.

So, we have a robot flying threw space about to land on Mars.
We have Christians praying to their God and Muslims to theirs.
We have Atheists being Atheistic and Satanist being Satanic.
Punks are acting punk like and triple X-ers are passing the blunt right back.
We have scientists trying to cure cancer and theoretical physicists trying to understand dark matter.
We have you and I trying to work things out.

why.

What really is the point.
There are a select few things I am absolutely sure of.
I am alive.
I am going to die.
I love you.

why.

Why don't I just die already?

He has so much more than I could ever have.
He's got the looks, the girl, the money, the car, the scholarship.
What do I have?
Smokers lung and more than a few scars.
His future is golden while mine is cold and dark.

He is so much more than I could ever be.
He's the quarterback, the life of the part, the valedictorian, the nice guy.
What am I?
The wise guy, the teacher's nightmare, the guy on the sidelines, the ****.
He is a golden boy and I am dark and cold.

"I'm a mountain that has been moved
I'm a fugitive that has no legs to run
I'm a preacher with no pulpit
Spewing a sermon that goes on and on"

Maybe someday I will be good at writing and good at skating and good at studying and good at loving you.
Maybe then I won't have to live in this ****** town, in this ****** two bedroom rut.
I won't have to live off of minimum wage, and 9 to 5 every ******* day except for Wensdays.

Maybe some day I can make you happy.
I might quit smoking and I might start listening to happy music.
****, I might even be happy.
you might even be happy.
what a plot twist that would be.

But for now, I know I cannot change where I am.
I am a ****** skater and a ****** lover.
I work at a ****** job and make ****** pay.
The only thing not ****** in my life is you and you have your bad days.

I imagine a day when people will give me money for doing things I like.
Maybe for skating or writing or singing or just being me.
Other people do that.
People make fortunes by doing that ****.
Maybe if I did that I would be happy.
****
maybe even you would be happy.
someday.

I think we could be a good couple.
Yeah, I think we could make it work.
Is there something wrong with that?
I think you're pretty.
You think I'm pretty.
I want to kiss your face
and you want to kiss my face.
I want to hold your hand
and you want to hold my hand.
You're cute
and yeah,
but also,
and kinda,
you know?

Your dark brown eyes pierce through the burdens of everyday life and appeal to me.
Your dark red lipstick is teasing and yells "hey let's be more than friends."
I want that.
I want to stay locked onto your eyes and I want to forever have your red lipstick smeared on my neck.
I want you.

You're blue dress is beautiful and stands out from all these slutty leopard spotted rags.
Your face is radiant and shines over all these *******, makeup caked ******.
I'm not afraid to tell you I love you and I hope you're not too afraid to love me.

I want to hold you and smoke cigarettes with you until we're tired of them and  then I want to kiss you until we're tired of that and then I want to talk to you about  e e cummings because we'll never get tired of that.
and I want you.
Just you.
you.
.

The sky is orange and smokey and I don't know why.
Where is this fire?
Who started it?
Why did they start it?
Was it an accident?
A stray cigarette?
An arsonist?
Does it really matter?
The only thing I am aware of is that there is smoke and the sky is orange and I don't know why.

The Strings of my being and frail and have trouble knotting and I don't know why.
Where do they begin?
Where do they end?
Who knotted them?
And who keeps untying them?
Is it myself without my conscious approval?
God?
Or is it you?
Does it really matter?
The only thing I am aware of is that the Strings of my being are frail and have trouble knotting and there is smoke and the sky is orange and I don't know why.

My life is crazy and sometimes I'm happy and other times I'm not and I don't know why.
Who is causing this to happy?
Why is this happening?
Who is tugging on the strings of my emotions and why the **** are they doing it?
I believe it is you but does it really matter?
The only thing that I am aware of is that my life is crazy and sometimes I'm happy and other times I'm not and the Strings of my being are frail and have trouble knotting and there is smoke and the sky is orange and I don't know why.

I just don't know.
Why.

cigarettes
****, all gone.
ash trays
empty
**** it
side of the road
empty
******* trash can
full of garbage
Marlboros?
I don't care
American Spirit?
Why would I care
filtered unfiltered
why should I care.
I'd smoke out of a elephants *** to stop this scrath
this headache
this yearning
****
get me my fix
get me my ******* cigarette.

I look into the mirror.
Into my Cold blue eyes.
Is there anything more?
Any longing? Desire?
The laughter is hallow, the light is dim.
There has got to be more than this.
What am I missing.

I place my hand on my chest.
Onto my Cold, beating heart.
Is there room for more?
Anything other than this constant Frost.
The love is shallow, the strings are frail.
There needs to be more than this.
Where (when) did I go wrong?

I hold onto her tightly.
Wrapped in my Cold, meaningless arms.
Where is the love?
Where is there anything but myself? My Chilling thoughts.
The friendships are weak, the love is withering.
There needs to be some way to fix this.
Why are we like this?

Death seems almost appealing.
What lies beyond is scary.
Maybe Hannah's right?
Perhaps there is a constant nothingness.
Maybe my mother is right?
Perhaps there is a place in Heaven for those who pray.
Or maybe there is Hell?
How bad could it be.
Oh yeah, I know.
I've been living there for the past year.

"After your dreams have all died and morning isn't mourning, what are you?"

It's
             a sad moment.

Looking

              into the pack and finding it empty.

What

             am I gonna do?

Without

             them life *****.

Quickly

             look into your wallet.

Three

           bucks, ******* *****.

Oh

           Well one night won't **** me...

...

            ...

Somebody

            **** me, I'm ******* dead.

It's not the amount of love I show to you and prove to you that is overwhelming,
it's the lack of love and respect you show to me and the staggering amount of your ******* I put up with.
I believe you when you say you love me.
I've believed you when you said you love me for the best four years.
I believe when you say that we could never work out.
Why ruin a good thing?
After all, that is what we have: a good thing.
So why am I so bitter?

Why do I not allow myself to sleep at night?
Not allow myself to put out the cigarette or stop myself from lighting the next?
Why do I not stop myself from uncorking the bottle or chugging longingly.
Why do I allow myself to be so angry at the world and at myself.

I ******* hate everything.
myself.
you.
the world.
my parents.
my friends.
the ****** bands.
the good bands.

This constant state of nothingness is starting to weigh down on me so I fill it with the bottles.
I fill it with the cigarettes and the hatred.
You?
Me?
Why?
After all, what we have is a good thing.

Isn't it?

Oh my God, I love you so much.
It's killing me, it really is.
The strings of your being are constantly interfering with my life.
I can't think of anything but you.
The sound of your voice on the phone is soft and sweet
and your laugh is richer than kings.

You are too ******* yourself and not critical enough of those around you.
You are a wallflower and I'm sure you understand.
The energy field that your love creates is overwhelming and I let it swarm over me.
I can feel it in my heart and my fingers.
I cannot feel you though.

You are distant and vague.
A figure that my loving self conscious emits to keep me occupied.
I think of you as I go to sleep and as I start each day.

Do you think of  me?
I'm sure sometimes you do but they are more important things.
Prepping for school,
not killing everyone,
living.
These things are hard but especially for you.

You don't have time for me but that's all I got for you.
We can share.
Look at us and look at them and look at the strings of our being softly caressing the loneliness that is living.
Why? do we do this?
Why? are we so afraid?
Why? do I feel this way?
Why? can't you see the way I do?
Why? do we continue to suffer?
Why are you here and why am I there and  why can't we be somewhere together?

Sneaking out at one in the morning.
Not because I need to.
No one to see
nothing to smoke.
Not trying to get caught and prove a point.
My only reason is lack of a better thing to do.
My only cause is to not have one.

I turn the *** (ever so slowly) until it creaks.
It always does.
I push the door (ever so quietly) until it squeaks.
It always does.
I step outside,
leave the door open,
look in window,
make sure the lights are out (they always are) and close the door.
Take one step, two steps,
three steps, four
onto the lawn.
Look up at the sky, to the stars.
See Old Mother shining bright (she always is) and look left.
See Old Father shining bright (he always is) and walk north.
Down the gravel driveway and onto the road.
Check for cars, there aren't any. (there never is)
Turn left and walk up the hill.
At the top there is a field.
Check for bums (never there)
Lie down.
Look at the stars some more.
Pull some grass from the ground and weave a little cross.
Turn it upside down and laugh.
Wait five minutes, then ten.
Eleven, twelve, and thirteen more
Hear a door and then a car start.
Watch as the headlights as they go the other way.
Recognize the license plate as my fathers.
He doesn't stop (he never does)
Get up and walk home.
Check the ashtray by the threashold for cigarettes. (always a half one)
Smoke it.
Go inside.
Check for note (there never is one)
Get in bed
wait for sleep (always hard)
Wake up.
Wait for phone call (there never is one)
Commence life.