Today's Tuesday and it's the 31st of December 2013;
A year's end just to open a path for a new beginning.
A eternal cycle of hope given to those with shattered dreams;
A resolution, a choice to be someone new with a passion that gleams.

With the thoughts of the past were we must left behind for history to write;
Now it's the time to alter your fate just do your best to make things right.
For never a moment God forget to look after us, guide us, give us signs to follow;
It's us that sometimes think we are all alone in the dark with only misery and a bitter pills to swallow.

So stand proud and tall never let the weights of negativity drags you down;
Crawl if you must first, to walk then run serve failure as your training ground.
Build a fortress with your bag of hammers, don't let it consume you and start being a whiner;
With a will to change no matter what cards you are dealt with, for once make yourself a winner.

Scream out your name to the night with fireworks roaring;
Held your fists up high like you are holding something burning.
That is the passion, looking forward a brand new year;
A new dawn that for once you will never shed again painful tears.

And here I bid you a happy new year by all means have fun and enjoy;
Seize the day!Have a blast make some noise raise your morale let your passion boil.
Feast and bond with your families and friends just let the good times roll;
For this coming year changes will surely be there, so start making a way to make yourselves whole.

Wake up
       Think about you
Fall asleep
       Dream about you

I don't belong here
and I don't mean this town I mean this earth
I'm not quite made out to be human you know?
if we were all created from a couple chemical reactions and a huge burst of light at some center of the universe I must be going home when I die
and I want to go home
I am homesick
for a place I barely remember
but it is nowhere here
no point on a map I can put my finger on
no road to get me there
and you know
I wouldn't be me without my sadness
it's as a part of my like my arms are
sadness is what makes me interesting
and I think thats why
no one ever notices
how sad I am
my mom didn't check off the box labeled depression when I went to the doctor the other day
and I didn't have the heart to tell her
sometimes I feel so sad
I feel so sick
but I'm laughing
and every breath hurts me and
oh how I want to go home
but it makes me interesting
makes me unique
who I am
not the sadness
just what it makes me do
I talk to people as if it's the last time I will see them a lot
drive a little too fast
I tried to commit suicide once
and I never did
I was pulled off a bridge
screaming really
I wanted to feel whole if only for a second before I hit the water
but I'm not afraid anymore
I think about dying a lot
but
I don't make solid plans
or write letters
and sometimes I still think about throwing myself off a bridge
or in front of a car
sometimes I write sentences, just single sentences
to leave when I am gone
and sometimes I want to write a suicide book
and other times the only suicide note I need is your name
but I don't
because I made a promise to a boy that left me that I would stay
the problem with being homesick
is we are taught that eventually you go home anyway
but

I'm not leaving

Handsome shades of murk crackle the joints in your bony fingers while she drapes purple towels over a broken window no one has bothered to sort.  It's a quiet and moldy sort of night, with even a starry sky lying shamelessly over tranquil lakes under closed willows. There are no secrets though between her eyes and yours, who find joy in absently breaking the bleached porcelain cups your in laws bought, on this blood stained floor. With all this abstracted silence dying to burn your dog hearing thoughts, she finally manages a whisper.

'Dare not let the light in and wake you from this memory.
It might be putrid but it's the best you'll ever have'

   Leaning back, the chair you sit on sobs wordlessly about the strain of living and the piles of laundry no one has bothered to fold. The moon overlooks your surroundings, watching pine trees in the distance exhale their last breath and drop weights of hope omitted from the stars for this Earth. Perhaps ignorance is bliss or someone cut off her ears and yours because no one turned to notice while those same pasty fingers count back the pages ripped out of old journals, all meant for her. With all the trains missed and reminders dismissed,  you realize who's caught in a fog of sighs.

  She paints your portrait in distress because she'll never finish what once was. Termites are biting the wooden legs of this chair and rotting is the flesh on your arms. Reflecting back on your life is worth nothing more than a refrigerator note she scribbled on for last weeks groceries and now she sleeps in a place far more silent than in a coffin deep under roots where some proud oak trees once stood. Being found in the middle of a lost labyrinth with her hand no longer warm, you finally manage a sentence.

'Who cares about the dying trees, I'm running out of paper.
She might be dead but well alive in a writer's promise'

When I was younger,
I used to always see which raindrop,
On the window of the car would beat
All the other raindrops to the bottom
Of the window.
I'd sit there, watching, concentrating so hard,
Just to guess and be wrong,
As another raindrop would pull ahead
At the last second.
I was always so amazed by the raindrop
That won, that I'd pay no attention to the others,
In the same way, you're that raindrop that won;
You're all I paid attention to,
And now the only raindrops that win
Are the ones that fall down my cheeks.