A bar of soap wrapped with candy and sugar?
Or an emerald diamond hidden in a nasty ******?

Can we truly see, or can we just look?
A marvellous story written on the pages of an old dusty book

A short chubby girl with guts and nerves
While she has long legs and perfect curves

Her blue eyes and long blonde hair cause obsessions
but her eyes are sore and she lost her hair during the countless chemo sessions

She steals their hearts, and gets what she prefers
While she prays the nights as cancer steals her's

Now did you find this a bit confusing?
Because the chubby girl maybe outside cruising

While she prays
Counting her last days

Which one is which?
Did they just switch?

Or did you switch them?
You forgot about the rose petals because you were too busy gripping the stem.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but what if the beholder is blind?
The more we search inside, the more beauty we'll find.

And as for the two girls, it is not our job to know
because we cannot judge what does not show.

Do me a favor,
add to me flavor

Sprinkle kindness,
and compliments

Read what my fingers had typed
Press like to the poems you liked

And share-
it's only fair!

If you ever feel rejected by perfection,
know that perfection isn't even an invention.


Perfection only exists in the eyes of critics,
in the imagination of teenage girls,


in the harsh judgements of your surrounding,
and in the person you someday wish to become.

Swimming in your sea,
and your waves keep moving me

I find myself on the shore of a country
am I now imprisoned or free?

I don't know.
All I know is-

I did not flee,
it was your spree,

It pushed everyone away, including me.

"Everyone can do it,"
she said,
and I thought she was indirectly
telling me that I can, too
But she wasn't.

She was merely telling me,
That everyone can do it.
Wondering,
why I can't.

You've always loved bruises

and now I know why,

you loved them because they were just like you
purple and green
yellow and blue

they hurt,
just like you.
and they remind a person to feel
just like you always reminded me to.

To dearest,
I hope you can view me more clearly after this poem:

2 pm                 7/14/1788
I am lying down wondering why you are not replying
I wrote you a letter worth crying

3 pm                 7/15/1788
I heard your voice
In nothing but noise

4 pm                7/16/1788
I remembered what you said--

5 pm                 7/17/1788
I prayed for us to be wed

6 pm                 7/18/1788
I got tired of waiting

7 pm                  7/19/1788
I heard-- I cried

8 pm                  7/20/1788
You died.

she asked her mother
"why,
does the sun set?
why,
do the lights go out?
why,
do the doors close?
and why
do people leave?"
well child,
with every sunset, comes a break of dawn.
and dark rooms is where we dream till the sun comes out.
and with every closed door, a new door awaits to be opened.
and people come and go, but we can choose to keep them within.
as for me, i will be here, right here, till the end.

Guns, Rifles, Bombs, and Knives
Have taken away countless lives,

but all those mighty weapons cannot compete
with the one weapon, the true hurtful defeat.

Words.

Sharper than any knife.
So hurtful, that they may cause one to intentionally end their life

Because the worst kind of death is not that within the grave,
the worst kind of death is dying while still being alive

When you pray during every suicide attempt that you wont survive.

That, is when you know that you are already dead.

And that....

is the worst kind of death.

Maybe if you wipe the tears
From your eyes
You'll see the beauty of years
unravel and arise.

And maybe,
If you wipe the tears from your eyes
You'll come to realize
Why you never wanted to visualize
The agony that underlies--
them