she can't stop writing poems    
there are so many words    
she wants to leave behind    
her desire is to leave a mark    
upon the world  
Augustus Waters once said,    
the marks humans leave are too often scars    
but not scars that she wanted to leave   
she just wants to be remembered    
not as a perfect person    
instead as someone who is touched by flaws    
she wants to be remembered    
for her mistakes    
her dreams    
her laughter    
her delicate words    
she wants to be remembered    
as herself    
because at the end of the day    
one lives in the hope of becoming a memory

If I pour my heart into my poetry, will you actually take the time to listen to me?
Or will you attack it with the copy/paste button to fuel your cyber-based altruism.
Living vicariously through others you have shut the door to freedom of expression This isn’t a safe place any more; you’re not going to listen, just look for quotes
Because if this poem doesn’t explain itself in a few bars you won’t tune in
You want the poet to explain his art; the poet just wants you to turn on your brain
He wants you to feel the world not hear it explained in a few simple words
That sound good to your ears, and fuel your own opinion.
Stop looking for validation through quotes taken out of context, if you actually listen, you might actually learn.
I’ve had enough of false friends who want to stab me in the back any chance they get
To them I’m only acceptable if I sound just like them
A speaker on repeat is not what I want to be; the desire for truth burns within
Through conformity art dies if it’s not able to express its authentic self
But it’s alive in the pages of imagination written somewhere deep in your brain
It may be hard to see but I just want to believe that someone will listen
Long enough to hear the struggle in what I’m saying
I have doubts about God and the universe and whether I’m really sitting here
If creation is possible or if I am really just a manipulator
Of pre-existing realities; do you see my dilemma? Am I really a poet or just a fraud?

If I’m an artist I hope to be an arsonist because deconstruction
Is the only real form of creation; I can never be all I hope and dream
The iridescence of your face does not lend clarity
It just leaves me feeling like a disgrace.  
If I strike the match and let it burn like a resemblance of what’s within
Birthed in fire, strong enough to melt stone but contained in a few words
But what good are words when reality’s fleeting?
My questions they writhe like serpents within me
Fear it wells at the sight of your nearness; I want to hold you away
Keep the feelings and emotions safely at bay
Thank you very much this wardrobe is closed; do not open this door
It is shut for a reason, not just a season.

I might be silent but my thoughts are loud,
I know you think down upon me for you are proud,
Proud to be the most popular person in this whole **** school,
I would rather be a witty fool,
Than be a self-less conceited person like you,
Who chases on the weak to prey on,
The one who gets joy from bringing others down,
Thing is your just like a clown,
You look nice and are funny that I know,
But many are afraid, for you're not the person you show,
Don't tell me twice, I already am aware,
I will never be one of you, I swear.

You’re a flood, seeping through the cracks of my resistance
and wrecking the ships I built to send my memories of you out to sea.
You swallow up the shore and I’m left drowning in your waters.

You’re an earthquake, annihilating what I once believed was stable ground.
The floors I walk on disappear when you do.

You’re a tornado, showing up out of the blue, uprooting any sanity I have left.
The way you leave makes it seem as though there was never anything else before you.

You’re an avalanche.
One wrong move and it all comes crashing down around me.
Overwhelming, suffocating, and all at once.
You consume all that you touch.

I’m more of a car-crash. A careless incident that could have been avoided if someone had just paid closer attention. Or maybe there’s no such thing as an accident, and you were always meant to destroy me. Perhaps in a simpler fashion, like a slow-working poison, infecting my dreams and eating my sleep. I was always meant to be destroyed by you.