I sit quietly in a desk working on my homework. Conversations are becoming ramp just like how my worries are increasing. Don't worry I tell myself. It's all good. You have it under control. More thoughts, more worries. More thoughts, more worries. A bell rings. A bell rings but I don't get up. The stomping of feet feel like the stomping of thoughts inside my head. The heat in this place. This hell. It builds up like pressure inside my chest. Words are thrown at me in a way..in a way..that makes me want to explode. The water I hear dripping are my tears falling to the dry christened floor. My pencil slips out of my hand and onto my desk just like the way my heart drops inside my chest. A bell rings. A bell rings and I still don't get up. Again conversations are ringing, people are singing, my heart is hardly beating. I'm just here. I'm fading. I'm just a person in the back ground waiting to be touched. Waiting to be reached out and picked up under the florecent sun. The thoughts are still there. The worries are still running and running and running. But why can't I run? I want to run away from those worries not run towards them. My dazed fog still chooses to hang low like in the summer mornings. Please I beg. Fade away. Soon my heart just starts to flutter. The fog in my mind begins to fade away as the sun peaks. Everything feels. Better. I start to smile and laugh. I am better. And so eventually a bell rings. A bell rings and I get up.

The only time I fall asleep in your arms are the nights we sit by our empty glasses. The bottles lay askew on the floor, they are cold and dripping with the last drop of our day. They were filled with the fruits of our labor and the sour bubbling laughs. We filled each other in as we filled each other's glasses. The comfortableness, the ease that we feel are not because we are comfortable with each other. It is because our drinks push us out. You might as well say that we are introverts by day and extroverts by night. One bottle is empty and one hour of our day is complete. We move on continuing to fill the silence that we both cannot bear to see. To us being in the clear is seeing our glasses empty. It does not provide us with any relief, just anxiety to why our glass is still empty. I fill up the glasses as we fill up the room with our conversation. Two bottles down, then three, then four, and now we are on the floor. Laying there finger to finger, head to head, leg to leg we discuss our future plans and our ***** secrets because we know by morning we will forget we ever spoke. As sad as it may be, when we wake up in the morning feeling the pain of last night. We will just sit and stare. Not say a word. Our glasses that lay beside us this morning are as empty as our conversations. I just want to be able sleep with you after a night of not drinking. Because maybe I can actually speak.

Your vagueness fills me up.
Your power takes me down.
The reign of your life
tears at me like little
bells ringing in my head.
The mental stability of us
is drowning in a sea
of violent waves of lies.
The number of my cries
overpowers the number of the
little diamonds on your ring.
I can only cry out
and tell you, beg you
to do something about it.
All you do is hide
your flimsy little pig tails.
All you do is laugh with
your little pig snorted snouts.

One heart to heal in my swollen life,
             A single girl is left to cry.
An ace for the boy who is playing cards,
             playing the cards of a relationship with sight.
One soul to gamble,
             a single die.
A ***** left to play and left to play with my life.

Do you remember that day,
that day we met on the idea
that maybe, this day, was the day we could start.

Do you remember that day,
that day we fell asleep drunk on the idea
that maybe, this day, was the day we could be sweethearts.

Do you remember that day,
that day we waited around on the idea
that maybe, this day, was the day we could be apart.

Do you remember that day,
that day we drove the car on the idea
that maybe, this day, was the day we could restart.

Do you remember that day,
that day we ran on the idea
that maybe, this day, was the day we could depart.

A dance in the light,
on the street at night.
Under the harsh light she walks,
moving around as she talks.
The road being beat,
by her moves, too neat.