You don't know fear until it's 1am and your close friend texts you that he wants to drive his car off a bridge and you want to scream but it's 1am and you're supposed to be asleep.

You don't know fear until you're 12 years old and your father comes to pick you up from a great week of camp and you demand to know where your brother is because, well, he promised to come get you and it's only until you're driving home that you find out he's in the hospital because he almost hurt himself irreparably.

And you don't know fear until you're ******* around on the tracks with your best friend and don't notice the train and you scream for him to get off and thankfully there's two hearts pounding on the gravel as relieved laughter echoes across the emptiness and not one.

And believe me, you don't know fear until the girl who means the world to you tells you that she's not okay, more not okay than you initially thought, and the only ting you can do is feel the tears start to pour as, for the first time in your life, you pray to someone out there that she'll be okay.

You don't know fear until you find out so much about a close friend and you go through every day terrified he'll end himself and you won't be able to stop him.

You don't know fear until something happens to
someone you love and there's nothing
you
can
do.

I get butterflies when I see you
But they're not peaceful, content to merely flutter around
in my stomach and
make me nervous.
No, these butterflies are aggressive ,
Unsatisfied with staying inside.
These butterflies demand to be released from the prison
of my larynx.
These butterflies travel up to my lips and force their way out in the form of stupid little phrase and mumbles and stutters.
Only when they're outside do they realize they should've stayed
trapped.
Their wings brush my eyelids and lower them.
They crowd down my throat, tightening it.
Only when they're safe inside
Do I dare look up once more.
It's a relief to see you laugh it off, ignore it
The butterflies calm, waiting for another moment to rebel.

There--she's standing right there.
Just do it. Just say it.
Deep breath. It's okay.
"Hey so I know we've talked and stuff and I know we're just friends and I KNOW we're really different but....I like you and...I...I mean....forget it."

No. The nerves come again and
I leave her standing there.

And another day will pass, and a week, and a month
And even if I've recited it so many times in my head
I never tell her because it feels so wrong

Because every time I've done it before in the past
We grow more distant than
before.

So I'll leave her be and wait quietly on the side
Hoping....that, for once, she'll come for me.

It's sweater weather, hoodie weather, crush-the-fallen-leaves weather
It's colder weather, bleaker weather, grayer, foggier, quieter weather
It's darker weather, creepier weather, don't-go-out-alone-at-night weather
It's long walks weather, graveyard weather, almost-Halloween weather
It's fading weather, dying weather, eerie, empty, silent weather.

And yet....I've never felt more alive

You...are my drug
Not in a good sense
You get me high, higher than the sky but it's
the crash, the crash that I
remember.

I see you and it's like you're
injected into my blood.
And at first I don't feel anything
But then....

Then comes the dialation
Perspiration
Quickening of the heart
There's a quiet thudding in my ears
and I can't quite concentrate

It feels so great to be around you
but when we separate
I crash.

I hate myself for wanting you
The eyes contract to normal
And the cold sweat dries

The pounding in my ears
goes quiet
and I'm left with my thoughts,
Thoughts of loathing.
I hate how you make me
Happy.
I hate your side effects,
you ****** drug,
And
I
Hate
You

With soft pinks and oranges and purples a sunset is so pretty
Whenever one is exceptional
People will stop and stare.
"Wow!" They go. "It's stunning!"
They'll drop what they're doing to go admire it.
But sunsets fade. They always fade to black.
Yet somehow in their fleeting glory, everybody loves a sunset

I think someday I'd like to be a sunset.

Sitting here, amidst these ruins
Waiting for something to come
Be it train or deer or people
I hope it's soon--I'm going numb

I wish there'd be a gentle breeze
To stir the moisture in the air
Then, perhaps, I'd concentrate
On poetry, not sweaty hair

An hour passes, perhaps two
Or maybe only twenty minutes?
I can't quite focus--this is hard
I might just listen to the crickets

But I'm not quitter--this'll get done
All I need's a bit more inspiration
This oil well of creativity is running dry
My artsy engine's suffering from dehydration

Guess I'll dig and drill and dig some more
Until I hit a vein of ingenuity
Perchance the topic'd be of love
Or of some ethereal obscurity

Yet pen to paper doesn't click
No matter how it's written
Not love, not pain, not anything
Appears to simply fit in

So after several hours here
I think I have decided
To simply base this poem on
What life now has provided.