The wind blows a sweet melody against the silver tubes that sound like the birds singing at the start of spring. They also sound like your voice, as sweet as syrup that flow smoothly from your lips like the rain dripping of those beautiful wind chimes. But your voice leaks a venom so poisonous that it can **** anyone who falls for its sweetness unlike the wind chimes in my backyard. Your melody is laced with lies like the song of sirens that lures people to their death. Your silver lining fools everyone into thinking that you're an angel when you're really just the same as a fallen one, doing no good except tricking everyone who trusts you. No one knows your true form, but I have seen your lies and tricks and am no longer fooled by your melody and can look past all the deceit. You don't deserve to be compared to the beauty of wind chimes but you already know that I can't help but make everything poetic. I'm a poet, I like to make everything poetic, and I guess I find you in everything, I can't help it. You see, I've been fighting to get out while going nowhere, you've been fighting to get in, but I haven't even given you the keys to my heart, maybe in this case I'm too old, and you're too young to deal with a girl with this much woman, with this much stress on my shoulders, there's only one seatbelt in my car, and when you figure out who I really am, when I'm not one of those beautiful wind chimes tinkling in your Mother's flower bed, we'll be hell-bent on crashing. You see, I don't speak to you in wind chime, maybe more so stagnant water. I'm probably eventually going to fall in love with you though, and part of me is going to die, but most of me is going to come alive, chaos... I can't stop thinking about your blue eyes, and how they drown me, they are simply two milky hurricanes, and I can't wait to get my house demolished by a storm with your name title... And that storm will make those little wind chimes ring and sing until they got torn off their post from the heavy winds and destructive force, just like how my heart will be ripped to shreds when you run in and our of it. So maybe I don't give out the key to my heart because I don't want it to be robbed or destroyed by someone who won't remember my name a month after I leave. You can never see the real me because then you'll flee and run as far as you can rather than staying to love me as I am. So maybe you'll go looking for someone else with poison in their voice who won't have all the problems I have, and whose heart isn't even locked. But that's just looking for trouble and I learned that trouble is never good and people never stay for long so when I don't want to get attached to you, you know why. Maybe if I was younger I would give away the key right away and invite trouble in but I've made that mistake far too often and I'm just learning now; that if you play with wind chimes, eventually you get stuck in the middle and those little things can hurt and leave bruises wherever they touch. I wonder a lot, so tell me, are you going to twirl me around in your arms or in your head?¿ are you going to kiss me on a backdrop of stars?¿ and make me exhale the solar system?¿ are you going to leave me your stardust to remember you by?¿ I guess I've died waiting for you, and when I say die I mean death reached out his hand for me to take and took me on a journey, he showed me what life would be like without you, so I guess I need you, I need you more than I put out... Is this loving you making me petty and dull?¿ and jealous of your bedsheets because they caress you when you're cold at night, and not my arms?¿ I promised not to get attached, but what happened?¿ I'm going to let you tear me apart like a pack of hungry wolves looking for meat on a long, cold winters night, I'm going to let you dig into my ******, juicy heart, and if you break my heart than I'll be honored to have it broken by you... I'm hoping my seashell wind chimes hanging in a spider-like branch of my old pine sound like Sunday church bells, or a welcoming to a funeral, or a welcoming to the wedding of the space between our fingers finally being filled... Or maybe my wind chimes will sound like home, the sound you hear on every windy day that reminds you everything will be okay... But maybe it will remind you of what you never wish to know again, maybe it will remind you of your first heart break and we all know how terrible that is, it will remind you how a tornado flew through your heart and ripped it to shreds even though you tried so hard to keep it out. But no amount of protection works against keeping your heart from loving and getting hurt because, lets face it, in the war between your heart and your brain, your heart will always win leaving your brain thinking of the consequences in the aftermath when the only thing it can do is nothing so you just sit on your couch listening to the wind chimes that bring so many memories.

She jots down her feelings into that black journal with the red rose on the faded cover and the spine made out of red yarn to keep it held together. She writes about a boy, and how he has one green eye and one blue. I guess you could say he was a beautiful human being to her. She wanted him more than she had ever wanted anything in her life. She never experienced any touchy touchy feely feely crap, but he had the veiniest arms and it's as if he had the roots of a tree clinging to him. She wanted those hands, those send, around her body. She wanted to kiss his lips to see if he tasted like a hurricane or a tornado, or simply even a raindrop. When you're around her hands get all clammy, her palms are soaked, as if she's holding the ocean in her hands, this is what sweaty palms of nervous love is. She wrote about how his eye was as blue as the ocean she was drowning in after he had gone and how the other was as green as the leaves on the tree she fell from when she first met him. She wrote about how that was the same tree whose roots clung to his arms and when she fell she lost her roots. His lips that she oh so dearly wanted to kiss were as red as the rose whose thorns pricked her heart and made it bleed and hurt every single time it beat. And his blond hair looked to be as yellow as the sun that she could find even on the cloudiest days, where the clouds were thick and the rain pouring but she found shelter being held in his arms. She loved counting the freckles on his face that were as numerous as the night stars. She fell in love with every single detail about him, yet she never saw the way he looked at her. She could paint a perfect picture of him just by memory, making sure every perfect detail was included, but she didn't see herself as beautiful as the boy with the blue eye and the green eye did. She's scared of him though, no matter how beautiful he may be, no matter how much he reminds her of the sun, or the roots of trees clinging to him like cobwebs clinging to her un-kisses okays. She wonders, what if she keeps quiet, what if she won't destroy you, but she's really hoping she doesn't destroy you with her smile, she doesn't want you to look for a way out when you haven't even made your way in. She finds her dad in silverware, as it clatters and falls to the floor, especially knives, dressed in memories, they stab her in the back like he stabbed her mom, he's why she's so scared, her Father up and left without reasoning, she's scared to put her trust in you like she did him. But, she'll find you in scalding water, as she's washing years of giving up off her history book hands... You're that abandoned building with a Danger sign hammered to a white chipped paint door, she's taking a chance and she's going to judge you for what's inside, and hopefully no halloween masks are covering up your heart, making you someone you're not. She's scared of what she will find inside but also knows she can't turn back when she find out. No matter what wires are broken and how unstable the building is she'll take her chances knowing that she very well can die in there but that would be better than dying before exploring the heart of her lover. She takes her adventure to learn more about this mysterious boy to find what lies behind his eyes hoping to glimpse into his heart and soul so she can jot down her discoveries in that journal. So she can see the truth in why those eyes are two different colors and why he never gets too close to anyone that loves him. He's just as scared as going in that abandoned building to find what lies within as she is, but he's even more wary of what he does ready to fled at the first sight of danger, at the first fallen wire he's ready to run but she keeps going trying to dig deeper into the mystery while he just doesn't want to be hurt by the girl with the brown eyes.

The old abandoned light house that was always on the shore. I never stopped shining bright to guide the lost ships home. I never lost my use, the abandoned light house was always there. Light houses are supposed to sleep in the sunlight, and keep awake at night, alert of all surroundings, like a watchdog. I might not look like much, you see, they call me abandoned because I haven't been touched in quite some time, but I promise a story hides beneath these cracks I like to call wrinkles from smiling a wee bit too much at the hue colored sunsets, but that's the thing, ships like to mistake my smile for something else, they see my smile  and they usually look for a way to leave, and they don't see the word "stay" tattooed on my *****, I guess stay doesn't mean anything. The ships never stay for long, just short stops to refuel or rest. Though my light is always guiding them home, they rarely come back. Sometimes I scare them away, I guess they only see this abandoned light house as something to fear, and not something to love. My cracked windows and fading colors don't attract many fans my way. They don't love broken and run down things, always looking for the newer ones. But no matter what they do I'll always shine my light to guide the ships home. I wonder how many strangers carry pieces of a shipwreck in their rough, sandpaper-like hands, I wonder how many strangers won't find their way back home tonight, I wonder if their wives' lipstick stained their hearts just because they knew they may never get to wake up accompanied by their significant other again. I see so many stories in rosy checked - unshaved beard faces, and it makes my light illuminate them instead of what lies ahead of them because I want to be used as their hotel for one night, maybe a one night stand type of deal, I just want to be filled with laughter, and I want their words to stick in my mouth. I want to feel their love, the love of a sailor lost at sea who finally found his way home. I want to know what its like to be missed so much after being gone for so long, but people don't miss anything thats abandoned, let alone a light house that still shines. I want to be cared for like the sailors when they get home, treated like something people need and want so dearly. I know I'm needed, but they don't see that. I am not wanted by anyone, I'm just a ramshackle light house that no one likes to see. My light may help guide them, but they don't care for me as I do for them. They look forward to seeing land, to going home, but they don't look forward to see my light. I want people to stay long enough to see the waves crash into each other, and see the way the stars twinkle like tiny fires on the water in the moonlight. You see, I still sing, but my melodies sound like the moans and groans of ghosts, maybe that's what scares everyone off?¿ my life is an open book, most people don't read more than a few paragraphs...this sinking feeling is knowing that my light doesn't want to be seen with me anymore, so it dies off like the life inside me did.

You made her a walking heartache by leaving, leaving without a goodbye, leaving her with nothing but your fingerprints smudged n her heart like stained glass doors. You see, if you dusted her heart for fingerprints, you'd only find yours, but I guess you haven't came back around to finish your spring cleaning, now I have weeds growing around my ribcage, blooming thorns instead of roses, I'm all torn and worn, I guess that's what happens when you care for people a little too much, you get so interested in their story, but they only read the title of yours, leaving you to turn into a dust ball of Death's-head Hawkmoths, showing no yellow, orange, and red hue colors, just the color of death. And if you had bothered to come back after destroying me, you would find flies eating away at my rotting heart after leaving me for the dead. My story has been destroyed, and now my heart is rotting like a dead body thats been buried for too long. Every part of me has turned to dust after you walked away leaving me in the debris of the tornado that was you. All you leave is destruction in your path, not leaving anything as it was. You destroyed me and then you left, you didn't bother trying to fix me even after everything you caused. My heart broke and I died again and again, after you I was walking around dead with a stone cold heart. You made her into debris, not by your car, but by your words. She takes walks beneath the stars, and has too many long talks with the streetlights, they talk about you a lot, but mostly how you were a pig, never treating her the way she should've been, the way she could've been. She changed moods with every season, but you never really noticed, and it wasn't changes for the better, you see you made her weak and brittle, and you tossed her around like she was a sack of old bones, so nothing seemed to matter, you didn't care. You're a fool, didn't you see the way her eyes would light up when she's look at you?¿ or was that the ground?¿ she always knew her hazel colored eyes best. You never saw the way she smiled whenever she saw you, nor did you see how quickly it disappeared when no one was around. You never called her beautiful when she didn't have make up on, was it because you were scared that once that thought popped into your mind you knew you were ******* from that very second?¿ or did you just really not believe?¿ Because everyone else who saw her would have told her how beautiful she really was, and anyone she loved would love her just as much, but not you, yet she still loved you with all her heart. Maybe she thought the more love she gave, the less you would be scared of commitment, because thats why you never stay in one place for too long isn't it?¿ why you never finish a book, why you never unpack your bags?¿ You were so scared of commitment you left the one person who was trying to help and you broke her and made her scared to love.

After my first bicycle accident I fell so hard it was the worst pain I ever felt, at least for the time being. I had scraped knees and hands. I was scared to ride again because bicycle accidents hurt but I had to get up and keep going. And to be quite frank, thats how I feel about you. You made fall so hard that it felt like I was struck by lighting while being hit by a train and my breath left my body as I was being crushed and shocked at the same time. I fell for you so hard it was like riding my bicycle of a cliff falling onto a pile of sharp rocks. But none of this really tells how much I love you or even close to how hard I fell. You were like my first bicycle accident without training wheels, and instead of my dad, you were the one to catch me when I'd fall. I used to scratch my elbows on the gravel, and tiny rocks made a bed out of my fresh wounds, kinda like shards of glass after punching out a window, but not quite as painful. You were what I was looking at while I wasn't paying attention, it was a boy then and it's you, a man now. I guess I've always been attracted to the things that caught my eye the most, like rainbows after a sunshine downpour, I like how the color spectrum was freed, and I like how the treetops would dance. I like how I fell for you, I didn't scrape my knees on my way down this time, you caught me in your arms, and I tried to shake my nervousness off with a smile, but you giggled and told me I didn't have to worry, you were my prince and you'd always catch me, your princess, in your open arms. But eventually my bicycle grew old and I needed a new one, just as to you I grew old and you grew out of me and went looking for another girl who was falling a bit too hard. My search for a new bicycle happened during your search for a new girl and I never realized until it was too late and you were already gone. So I was lying hurt on the floor with my heart torn open just like my scraped knees while you were off to catch the next girl that fell. You see, before you left me little old me, I realized I fell in love with you, and everything around us seemed to explode into a million fiery pieces. You smelled like cigarettes and pine trees, and I don't think I'll ever be able to forget it, no matter how many times I wash my clothes, you're still lingering on them, like the taste of your kisses linger on my lips. I'm turning more and more into a young lady, so no more plaid button-up long sleeve tees with a pair of my favorite jeans that have a hole in the right knee, I'm going to wear dresses, and hope the wind teases the flow so you take a look at my lightening kisses thighs. Funny how we met, I keep giggling at the fact you actually caught me as I fell, but I guess I was stupid to think you'd actually stick around... Now I'm back to biking, and I bike to a nearby lake, I'm back to feeling like I used to, I'm back to feeling the wind play with my hair, I'm back to square one, falling in love with scenery around me, instead of silly boys like you...

There's a garden full of flowers that no one gives a second look too. The only reason no one stops to gaze at the beauty of them or take a picture to share with friends is because the garden is full of dead flowers. No one notes the beauty of the wilted petals of them or how they're still partially standing even though they've long lost their color. No matter how much love and care these flowers get they will never be the same again because they already died and you can't change something like that. In this garden there's still some living flowers, but they're one step away from dying, and no one would care anyway. The garden is overrun with weeds taking any life still showing in the flowers destroying them even more. But these dead flowers are still beautiful through the death they have gone through. Dead flowers make me sad, they remind me of funerals, and the way we mark our favorite bible verses, our favorite pages, with a certain type, they remind me of sadness, like they no longer want to bow down to the sun, they just want to die off and be forgotten, kind of like me. You see, you weren't so much a green thumb, you made everything wilt, instead of strong and tall. You know how dead flowers are weak and brittle?¿ well, you made my body decompose while I was still much alive, it's like you liked to feel my body break. I hoped for rescue, I hope you'd take my hands out of my pockets, and tell me I wouldn't be stuck in this **** town forever, and we'd run away together. Definition of safe was sitting still, but how was I supposed to when this silence was destroying me?¿ you left me, and I became an abandoned hospital, wanting to help others from feeling the way I do, like a vacant amusement park, but how was I supposed to help them when I couldn't even help myself?¿ flowers must feel the same way after you teased them for so long, telling them they'd end up on some pretty girls doorstep, but they eventually got tired of waiting, tired of your *******, tired of your unfulfilled promises. I walk into this garden of dead flowers, maybe because I just want somewhere I can fit in because god knows I don't belong anywhere. I take some flowers with me, to remind me of myself, but mostly to remind me of you. The garden is now behind me because I can't bear to look at this death and pain anymore. I drop the flowers at your door, maybe you'll think of me when you see the way they're wilted and broken. Maybe you'll put them in a vase to try and keep them alive even though they're long past their expiration date and nothing you can do will bring them back to life. Just like the way you killed me and tried to fix your mistakes with some flowers that were soon to die like everything you touch does. I guess most things I find are already dead too so we must not be that different, you **** things and everything I know is being killed. I guess I should stop thinking about dead things and you because that does nothing but make me sad. My flowers are now in a glass cup, but with no water because no amount of care can make them survive, but I guess I couldn't leave them there because I can never leave dead things alone no matter what I do, even dead things need to be loved by someone. I hope when these dead flowers see the light, they go to heaven, and I know they're just flowers, but how come I'm doing the "polite" thing and pulling them out one by one, kissing them and laying them out to sundry?¿ if god won't accept them, well I'll just have to give him my hands, it won't be enough, but he can have them anyway. This is who I'm supposed to be, I'm supposed to be the bigger person here... I'm going to bury our memories and see what re-grows, and if rusty nails with pointy heads pop up, pointy enough to cut my index finger on and cause me to get a tetanus shot, well I know we weren't worth it, but we tried, we tried...

She was mysterious, she was difficult to understand, but there was something about her that kept him wondering, he liked the color of her hair, and the way her veins reminded him of tree roots, which brought back memories of his grandfather, he had a pine tree outside his front porch, and when it slowly started to die he did too, they both went quick and peacefully, so they say, I don't believe so, but that's a whole different story. Her skin was always goose-bumped, and her eyes were more gray than blue. She seemed calm, like a downtempo piano love song, but if you push the right buttons she'll come undone and cause a disastrous tornado out of swear words and her middle fingers. She doesn't seem to give her heart away, but he's hoping he'd be lucky enough to have her wear her heart on her sleeve, and love him whenever she felt like. She comes and goes, like a fast moving freight train, and he's hoping to catch her before she's out of sight, before it's too late. She never stays long because she enjoys being like an enigma, she doesn't want anyone to understand her because that means she's one step closer to becoming normal. But he hopes that he can put the pieces of her heart together like a puzzle, and figure out her soul like it were a riddle. He always watches her trying to figure out a way to understand her because he is as determined as the little sailboat sailing across the ocean to get back home in a terrible storm. But she is the storm that keeps blowing him further away from home and the waves that are keeping in spinning in a circle. And she reads all the time to help her add to the mystery of her life, to pick up new words, new actions, and new ideas so that they never figure her put. She comes and goes, every time coming back with a new hair color and a new wardrobe, and of course a new attitude. He hopes that he can get to know her a little bit more every time she's around but every time she leaves she changes and he can never figure her out. He can't forget her, no matter what. He tries to forget her face, but it's like his eyes are Polaroids, and they snap pictures of her face over and over again, he's losing his mind. He needs to talk to this girl, he needs to at least figure out her name. He's forever misses her, in ways he cannot tell her. He misses seeing her walk into his work, he misses her scent, he misses the little things. If only she was his to hold, if only he could take a taste of her lips.  He wondered if she'd like taking walks to the lake, and maybe skipping rocks across the water, maybe getting to know her, maybe getting an extra hour to admire her dimpled cheeks, or her freckled nose. He can see the scars in her eyes, he wonders if she can see the scars in his too?¿ he wants to know who's killing her, does she want to know who's killing him too?¿ He realizes how alike they are, but he still hasn't figured her out. He doesn't realize that he doesn't even understand himself yet. He doesn't know how she looks at him or that she tries to piece together her heart like a puzzle also. He doesn't realize that he can't understand her because she doesn't understand herself. She knows that she can't discover who she is and she won't understand who he is but she can try all she might, reading the mystery books to help find ways to solve this challenging puzzle to discover what really goes on in his and her minds and heart. He doesn't realize that he's another puzzle and he just hasn't figured out how to open the box.