I’m so sick of feeling alone.
I’m sick of this wanting, craving feeling towards love.
i want someone to give me the world,
without me asking for it.
i want someone to read me like the back of their hand,
to understand my thoughts and accept my past.
i just need someone
to need me.

i crave someone to finally open up their arms wide and let me inside,
to hold me and to never let go until the world has crumbled and fallen
apart and we have nothing left to stand on but each others feet,
and even then i’m not quite sure i would want them to let me go.
i want someone to finally acknowledge me and my differences
and fall in love with the way my eyes wrinkle in the corners when i laugh.
i want someone to sneak over late at night and talk about the stars and how majestic the color of trees look when a storm is approaching.
i want,
i crave,
i need,
someone
to need me.

my deepest fear
is being alone.
forever writing to a mysterious lover
who's name i shall never know.
forever craving warm hands
to envelop my soul,
to wipe the tears from my cheek
and speak words that only poets can create.
I wish to have a someone that
understands...
I wish, I wish, I wish ..
but now I'm starting to believe
wishing is for the weak minded,
and my mind cannot handle this torturous waiting any longer.

the mirror that whispers,
the mirror that shouts,
words of hate
and torture
and spout.
the lies it speaks
are of disgust.
the thoughts it creates
turns 'should stop eating'
to a 'must'.
the mirrors lies are tempting
to try,
but a forewarning ;
the lies will control you,
and they will eat you alive.

my heart is always hurting.
sadness consumes my thoughts.
im sick of seeing smiling people
who's minds are pure from demons.
they will always be stronger than i ever was
and i think thats why i can never smile
because i know that i'll never be good enough.

Your lips tasted
like the stars
i never got to see
because of the cities
bright lights.
And once our lips connected,
Meteors fell down to earth,
And the ground beneath us started crumbling.
For it was the end of the beginning,
And I couldn't have been more un-afraid.

WHAT IF I TOLD YOU HOW SCARED SHE IS. WHAT IF I TOLD YOU HOW SHE WATCHES THE WAY SHE WALKS, BECAUSE THE LAST TIME SHE FELL IN LOVE, SHE HIT THE GROUND. AND SHE WOULD OFFER HIM HER HEART BUT IT'S BEEN EATEN AT AND STORED IN A DOGGY BAG AROUND A CORNER WITHIN HER CHEST - AND SHE CANNOT HELP BUT ALWAYS FEEL LEFTOVER. WHAT IF I TOLD YOU THAT SHE'S SCARED OF FEELING.
BECAUSE IT DOESN'T FEEL HER BACK.

I have reached a resting stop in my life long journey towards complete and utter happiness. I am drained, weak, and nauseous. I can't do a single thing in life without worrying about a consequence, a mistake, a fear. If I move on; will I be wishing I stayed? If I stayed will I forever be regretting my decision? I need to see the world, but I also enjoy some things in this life. I crave adventure, but comfort is easy to find and 'home' it is easy to call.  I want to see what life has to offer, but what if it isn't as glorious as people proclaim? what if I am not the person I believe I am? a unique writer who craves inspiring scenery? Or am I just a little girl who's been thrown around by society, mind so hazed that I cannot figure out what I truly desire? Life; it's a living hell - but with an open mind and no pessimistic outlooks, it can be a best selling book waiting to be written. I might have the ability and opportunity to be the Author, through terrors, tortures, and turmoil... I might be able to make my hell into someone else's hope. I just have to keep going, moving forward, and stop looking back and dawning on the past.

I remember
when growing up
was desired.
We swung our lungs
upwards,
towards the sky,
so we could steal
the air of the
universe's river.

I'd call you on
my parents' red landline.
You'd call me on
a broken cordless phone.
Your father would yell
and I could hear your mother
knock over things
as she was either
running, hiding, or
fighting back.

You don't exist.
You're a figment of my
imagination.
You're a poem,
but I want you to be
a memory that is real
to substitute the ones
I wish were fake.

You don't exist.
Your name is not
Kimberly or June.
Your ears aren't pierced.
We never played games
or shared deep thoughts.
We never talked about
running the **** away.
We didn't grow up together.
We aren't close.
You were never born.

You are just a phantom
stemmed by an unoriginal
imagination. imagination.
imagination. imagination.
But I want you to be real.
Please exist beyond my mind.

In my head,
you confided in me.
In my head,
I wasn't so ******* alone
from ages 6 to 16.
In my head,
you're a phone call away.
I don't want to write a poem
to communicate to you.
Be born. Be born. Be born.

I have so much
I want to share.
I want you to meet
my girlfriend Rachel.
I want you to hear
about how everything
is going well, for once.

Be born. Be born.
Be born. Be born.