Caraphernelia.
I understand the word at all times.
You left me things
that shutter my eyes.
And when I wake up,
there's too much light.
I stumble around,
trying to close the blinds.

Caraphernelia.
I comprehend it with all my might.
Bring me the things
that will cut open my soul.
And when I try to sleep at night,
I think of ways to make me feel whole.
But after my rest,
I forget my ideas and return to
the misery on my chest.

I just cant explain

the way everything is what it's supposed to be

even when I'm in pain

I am unadulterated. I am free

It gives me shivers

so deep in my bones

my soul decides there's no time to give up

not even when I am at my most alone

this life gives me goosebumps

Sometimes
it all seems so real
     Like this reality weighs heavily on my chest and I can’t breathe.
my stomach jumps and sends this cold fire throughout my body and I feel it.

I feel the world boiling in my consciousness and there’s no release that could possibly be worthy of this feeling.
Then I tell myself I'm just being dramatic and I tamp that feeling down with my fear and sadness and a yearning for eventualities.
Sometimes I’m not sure what I mean.
Sometimes I make stuff up.
But really I’m just an awkward almost-twenty year old who wants her life to be something.
Extraordinary
But.so.is.everyone.else.
And isn’t that right?
Isn’t that rich?
That we are all one.
A vast ocean of “ones”.
I’m really just a wave.
And it is alright to be a wave.
Because waves, they move.
It’s alright to be dramatic though. Why not?
I have this mind that wants out and I keep suppressing it. At least I’m pretty sure I do. Maybe I don’t. Maybe it is only on occasion that I tell it to shut up because it all is just too much.
That’s probably it.
Who am I really?
I guess I could list all of my traits and that could be who I am. Or what I have accomplished in life, and presto, you have…me.
Then there’s this consciousness that sits inside this flesh and controls it. That could be who I am. But that consciousness is just the acts it has achieved and the traits it has portrayed, is it not?
So I guess what I’m saying is.
The I that is me has not achieved satisfactory on my scale of living by which I measure my worth.

Not yet anyway

My Soul Resides

In the *nooks and crannies of passenger seats.
In the books I've read too many times.
In the scent in the air after you left.
In the Pink Floyd t-shirt.
In the links of metal I only have memories of.
In the silver moonlight hitting caramel skin.
In the school books I've scribbled my name in.
In the memories of those I no longer speak to.
In the mind of my parents, who still think I'm their little girl.
In the movie I watch every week.
In the candles I blow out before I sleep.
In the songs I'd keep on repeat for hours.
In the anywhere from 15 to 50 minute showers.
In the nights I stayed up, listening to the rain.
In the days I woke up, feeling a little less sane.
In the summer romances.
In the fact I've never had a slow dance.
In the first good kiss I ever had.
In the scars I harbor, inside and out.
In the last time I felt right.
In the things I fear.
In the way things changed, in just a year.
In the first poems I wrote.
In the first time I could soak up the beach, alone.

This is what I am. This is what made me what- no - who, I am.

*My Soul Resides

Dear Nick,
I'm really quite sorry that I'm bad at this relationship thing
Please realize that I expected to never be loved and live with 75 cats
And I half expect you to start laughing and say "This was all a social experiment!"
But for you, I'm trying to be better at this relationship thing

Dear Nick,
I'm sorry it took me so long to call you back
You see, I have a crippling phone anxiety
and whenever I have to call someone I have a panic attack
But even if it takes pacing for 30 minutes, I'll always call you back

Dear Nick,
Sorry that I pulled back that day you tried to kiss me
And then made a dumb excuse how your breath smelled like popcorn
It didn't, and even if it did I wouldn't have minded
And now the only time your lips are on mine are in my dreams

Dear Nick,
I'm sorry I'm bad at expressing my feelings
And I can only tell you 'I love you' in cryptic rhymes in written word
And I'm writing you this poem you'll never see
But just know, you've been a huge inspiration to me

Dear Nick,
I'm sorry I say sorry for everything
I'm just so used to ******* up things
But I must be doing something right
Because you still loved me through anything
Maybe I'm not too bad at this relationship thing

Six feet under,
trapped in a see through glass box,
people can see you,
they can hear you scream,
but they walk by as if they see nothing.

Six feet under,
buried beneath the pain,
hiding under the sorrow,
merciless cries come close to shattering,
the glass in which you are concealed.

Six feet under,
conceited, twisted lies,
cannot be forgotten or lost
hearts forever broken
as you see yourself

Six feet under,
the glass reflects the pain in your eyes
yet your stare is emotionless,
your heart ceases to beat
blood no longer pulses through your veins.

Six feet under,
You forget how to scream,
you lose your sense of sanity,
the glass swallows you up
lost, and always forgotten.