Insane,
is one word I could use to describe myself,
as well as,
Utterly compulsive,
you know, about everything that doesn't matter anyway,
Beautifully flawed,
in my own, wonderful way,
Emotional,
in the worst of ways,
Neurotic,
about absolutely everything,
Fast paced,
so fast you can't keep up with me, physically, or emotionally,
and finally,
Completely unsure,
you know, of myself,
and who I'm supposed to be.

Would it make you feel better to watch me as I bleed,
Take it all in and watch as I fall to the ground,
My torn and broken remains, never to be found,
And you'd enjoy every minute, watching me crumble and fall,

You watch with no effort as to who you are, like nothing to the world,
And I'm sorry if you find it uncomfotring to read this when you're down,
I'm sorry I made that smile, turn upside down,

You know,
That smile,
That one you tried so hard to fake,
To not let everyone see how badly you're breaking,
That smile,
The one that covers all the tears that ever fell,
In moments of sorrow, or strife,
That smile,
That kept everyone quiet as to your condition,

Well no not anymore,
Now everyone is in full out uproar,
All because of the one little thing you said,
And it tore me down, it really did, when you said the words you said,
They really were awakening,
Opened my eyes to what i usually couldnt see,
Awakened me to the situation in midplay, the one right infront of my everseeing eyes,
These eyes, they see no lies,
Look past everything that ever seemed to not be right,

So go on dear, look at me and tell me theres nothing to fear,
That I will be happy here,
Tell me nothing can ever do me wrong,
Go on and lie to me again,
Like you think I can't  see you're lying.

Miracles are lovely,
Would you be my,
Reason to smile,
And make it mean something,  
Instead of something to hide behind,
Would you be the one I call mine,

Can we spend,
All of our time,  
Just talking
I could listen to you for hours  
At a time,
Your truly perfect,
Would you be mine?

I spend my nights dreaming,
And my days waiting,
To have someone to talk to again,
That one person,
That always makes me feel good,
My darling,
That person is you.

Listen to the melody,
as the teardrops float down your cheeks,
the music rids my memory,
of everything haunting me,

When it gets dark,
it sorta feels like the end,
but still I won't give in,

I use these words,
to fight the battle,
so many have lost before,
but I don't believe they can beat me,
not anymore,
for I am so much stronger,
than I was before,
I can stay in the fight longer,
and theres no doubt I'll win.

Energy darts through my body like bullets,
making me antsy, to say the least,
oh, why do I have to feel this way,
why can't I just feel good for a day,

Get rid of the constant shakes,
the tapping on the table that annoys everyone around me,
I tell them I can't help it, and they think I'm crazy,
they just don't ******* understand me,

My nerves are shot, and dead and gone,
I knew I was crazy all along,
this isn't an issue I can fix,
I just have to go on, with these problems,
for I can't do a **** thing about this ****,

It's simply the way I am,
whether you like it or ******* not,
my nerves, *are shot.

Colors swirl bath tub,
hues of stomach acid and wine.
You now know you've had enough.
The water runs hot, yet your bones
feel as if they may shatter,
due to the cold.

You're swearing you never meant for
it to go this far.
Never again.
Your words echo among  tiled walls,
the smell is putrid,
your hair is in knots.

Trying to regain the sanity,
you somehow lost.
Your sickness splatters
and I'm rushing with towels,
while your face drains color,
and the mother in me screams.
Your droopy eyes somehow
Bring out the protecter in me.

Your bloodshot eyes fall to the floor,
your lips quiver, how did this,
go so wrong?
Your mothers worried glances,
give off negative attitude.
This is not what we need now.
Don't show fear.
Just say that every thing will be okay.

You just have to say,
that it'll all be okay.
This will end.
You will get better.
Your stomach with eventually,
stop rejecting itself,
all in time.
You'll never have to do this again,
though you probably will..


Destruction is a girls best friend.

I woke up with stale wine on my breath, 
remnants of New Years spent at my cousins and making a friend. 

He opened the bottle and it wasn’t long 
before I started sneaking small doses 
into my Red Solo cup,
hoping the other 
adults wouldn’t notice, and if they did,
 that they wouldn’t care. It was twenty 
minutes
to midnight and I had moved 
on to a wine glass. All the other adults 
had
already had so much to drink that 

they forgot to care. 
It was fifteen minutes to midnight, and 
what was a full bottle was now empty
,
my head swimming, though my footing 
still sure and steady.
Between the two of
 us, two hours was plenty of time to 
**** a bottle of wine, even if it was only
 by ourselves. 

It was midnight and we were toasting to the life ahead of us, if not out loud 
then surely in our minds.
 I don’t think being happy is too much
 to ask for, when the clock strikes 12.

Night fall has arrived,
The sun is gone,
Along with my pride,
But I won't cry,
Save the tears,
For another sleepless night

no one ever told me,
that the butterflies in your stomach,
could stab at you like knives
carving out your insides while,
you sit in silence as you feel the hole
deepening.
stretch.
no one ever told me,
that the butterflies in your stomach,
could feel like gunshots,
from the inside out.

Maybe I won't survive, but that is okay for,
*Egal, wo wir morgen sind!

Sun shines through the trees, even on my darkest days
You know, those days were nothing seems right,
Those days where you know you're going to cry yourself to sleep that night,
Few moments past when you don't feel like you're nothing to the world.

Even on these dark, thought filled days,
The sun still shines, interferring with my trace of thought,
There is a slight chance, this poem doesnt rhyme,
because I can't exactly think with the sun in my eyes,
And a fly buzzing around in my face,

So if the flow of this is ****** up,
And there are more grammatical errors than normal,
Just ignore, because today, just isn't one of my better days.

This is mind numbing
just in the good way.
Not in the way that makes
me want
to carve truth
straight into my skin.
No.
My mind is numb in the
very best way.

If I could've taken you on that
futon upstairs without knowing there was a chance
of someone walking upstairs to catch us,
you would've been mine. Remember that.
There will always be a next time.

optimism is setting in,
because all the bright words you've said,  
are finally sinking in,
i see the world for what it is,
all the oppurtunities that can be taken,
if you don't let others, or even yourself,
bring you down,
so let me dream of a better day,
like a strong woman,
i refuse to back down,
so sing a song and live for today,
so many oppurtunities can come your way,
as long as no one, not even yourself,  
brings you down.

The greatest fable in life is time.
We created seconds, minutes, hours,
to be able to set goals to accomplish,
always making deadlines.
What we don't realize,
is we're running ourselves ragged
with our own lies.
So we get high,
just to get by
and forget life.
Create juicy gossip,
about the pills that we popped,
and the ***** that we copped,
and the tokes that we took
to forget the memories
we wish had never become reality,
or simply wish they never switched,
from present, to past tense.
Repeating endless cycles,
looking for imaginary life boats
to save us from the inevitable.
We are creatures that search for savior,
in the worst possible places,
never realizing when it's time,
to drop the syringes,
put down the bottles,
and pour out the **** water,
because it's time to get back to real life,
where people hurt,
and innocent die for
no good reason.
On the surface of breaking it,
and making it,
never knowing which one is
quite the right fit.
Questioning every decision,
under the suffocating weight of darkness,
that greets us with open arms,
in between dusk and dawn.
Praying for the comfort we've yet
to find in another living soul.
Coping with the use of things like,
depression medications, tear soaked napkins,
and the slowly dwindling fire that is hope.
We are the world's worst over thinkers,
the world's greatest sob stories.
We are the chances not taken,
and the finger-wrapped-around-telephone-wire-promises,
crushed under the crippling mass of despair.
We are a generation of ****-ups,
good for nothing more than
cutting our losses, and
running for the hills.

The problem is, this place we've created,
its destructive.
We tear down the walls and grind our teeth,
until pebbles of what could have been remain.

"I'm sorry I'm not perfect"*

I'll never forget the day you said that to me,
repeatedly actually,
I read the text over and over,
trying to make sense of the message,

For my darling you are perfect,
to me,
you always will be,
to me,
I don't really care what you think when it comes to this,
because to me,
you are absolute perfection,

In everyway,
I swear it,
because baby,
you're always gonna be perfect,
to me.

I spend so much time staring at blank canvases
hoping beauty will appear before me instantly
that I forget how the right brain works.
I forget how art doesn't come, it simply is;
you either have it or you don't.
These are talents you don't learn, can't learn.
You're born with the instinct to string words into sonnets
and mix paints into masterpieces, and most of the time,
no one else is capable of understanding just how you got them
to be what they are; it's your own personal daydream
that you can choose to get lost in, or lose in the crevices
in the back of your mind. That's why I write until
my hands go numb and my mind is in shambles.
I figure the more I do it, the better it will become.
The brain is more than an *****. It's a muscle that requires
constant manipulation to keep it in tip-top shape
and I don't ever want to fall into the background.
I want to spend my life tip tapping on keyboards and
scratching at paper with fine tipped pens as if my life
depended on it. To write of things unknown to the
not-so-artsy types. Because I've come to find that
a math or science major isn't usually capable of creating
crescendos with wordplay, or letting syllables shimmy
and shake off the tongue like they're doing the merengue.
It's a song and dance that takes more than simple muscle-memory:
it takes heart and soul and usually a little bit of pain along the way.
Starving artists aren't sad because they're hungry,
no, it's usually because they've experienced life in a way
that no one really wishes to. They've felt emotions rip through them
like tidal waves and that's how they came to write so **** beautifully,
or paint with such depth. Now a day's with depression levels
shooting up like rockets, outlets are hard to come by
but if you can source that pain into something beautiful,
you must be doing something right.
It's come to a point in my life where I believe half of my blood
is infused with the ink I've used to label my hurt
and ease my pain.
It's all about what gets you by; it's become a lifeline.
If it keeps me breathing for another
second, another minute, another hour, another day,
then I might as well let it grow like wild fire. Let it blossom into something beautiful.

the truth is i want to live long enough
to find sustenance in the roots of trees
and the green of grass.
live long enough to see a flower sprouting
in the middle of an untended lawn
and find a metaphor for my own life
within it's growing petals.

i don't know exactly what it is i want to live for
but i know that whatever it is will be beautiful
and i will drown in it's relevance.
it may take me years to find
and i may be old and gray by the time that day comes
but as soon as my eyes lay upon that certain thing
everything that has ever tried to knock me down
will be left dead in dust for a grave

humans are like stones in the ocean
tides turn us over until smooth, if we're lucky
if we're unlucky, the tide rejects us,
rough around the edges
and we face being buried under hot sand
that represents our mistakes.
choices made in moments where thought
was not a process, but instead a rejected idea.
like the many balled up pieces of looseleaf
that live in the garbage pail
next to a dissatisfied writers desk.
it overflows like our own regret.

i can only pray that i do not end up settling
for anything less than the smooth perfection
that i've worked so hard for years to accomplish
i did not pick the hand i was dealt
only made do with the cards in my hand
i am tired of settling
too compulsive to deal with anything less than
what i am capable of changing
i am not saying that i am mansion bound
or set on owning a private jet
but a white picket fence would be nice
maybe a black lab guarding a red front door.
there will be daisies in the flower beds
and red wine in the fridge
i'll make dinners made for kings and our pillowcases
will always match, no matter what.