She fell in love with November,
for the way the sun shined down on
decaying leafs
and chilling temperatures danced upon the tips of her fingers,
providing her with a perfect balance between life and death.

She presented herself to the world in this manner,
always happy and bright, but never content,
as days carried on cracks in her skin led to trails of pieces on the ground.
Her eyes often flickered between a beautiful orange and a sickly brown.
Her heart, as much as it wanted to be warm was deafly cold.

She was a mystery.

And as December rolled in and the world froze over in darkness,
so did she.
The only light in her life was the moon.
how badly I wish she could've loved a month like June.

How beautiful it is to lock your self inside
to turn the volume all the way up
and let the words of your favorite artist,
your most compatible soul, paint the bathroom walls,
with tranquil melodies.

How free it feels to let each note fill the recesses of your mind,
until you are hollow no more

How rebellious it must be stand in the spot where you and him made love, and let the warm shower water cover your icy veins and open wounds with embrace and dignity

How badly you want to scream and shout and declare your anger unto the world,
how badly you want to shatter mirrors and forget the memories,

Well darling, shatter away,
Graffiti the walls with words that make you cringe,
rip the doors off their hinges,
ignite the memories in flames till your mind is burning,
not for the past,
but for something new
something grand.

Throw the ashes in the ground and let them cultivate and grow,
into something they were never capable of being.
break down the barriers.
defy the odds of what this cookie cutter universe of fallen stars and broken dreams has to offer.

You're not like them.
you're not a fallen star,
your edges are never stagnant
you're like the sun,
you rise
you fall
you have your lows
but even when the shadows off the night lurk in,
we still see your glow.

There's is a rusty orange clad brick building
perched upon a mossy green hill
everyday day we sit in the same seats
and look out the same glass that locks us in
and gaze down upon the hill
hoping,
searching for something more out of this life
something that fits our desires,
something we will never know.
Because they say the more we are sedentary,
the more our intelligence will grow.
Surely they have it all figured out all wrong
what they have created is  
a cold hearted machine.
A machine of memorization,
A machine of 'the right way'
the 'only way'
of 'yes please's'
and never of 'no's.'
They say if one morning we decided to turn around
and never look back we would drop dead.
But what happens when my house forecloses,
because no one taught me how to handle money?
What happens when I turn to pills to keep me alive
because no one told me the basic skills of survival?
What happens when I am out on the street,
frigid and alone,
with a cardboard box and a bottle of liquor as my only two friends?
Will algebra help me?
What about Chemistry?
Will those pain staking hours of note taking
help me pick up the pieces of my life?
No.
Surely then I will be dead.
Gone.
Along with my intelligence
and my creativity.
Six feet under
that mossy green hill.

Down in Beverly Hills
Drowning in high end champagne
And pure white *******.
Getting high under palm trees
With Benjamin Franklin on his knees
Praising every little success and every little achievement.
Nobody believes it when you say you have life on string.
That you tell jokes for a living,
All the critics say you're the next big thing.
Yet the hardest thing to comprehend is when your mother comes to lend you a hand one day,
and to her dismay finds that what you told her was the other way around.
Your grip on life turned out to be loose,
and now life has the string around you, tied into a perfectly tight noose.
The fame was too much
Smiles came not nearly enough.
Even for the rich and famous,
Life can be tough.

The way I love her is unlike anything I've ever felt
My heart is literally melting
When she calls me
I hear her voice
And I'm at peace
My eyes meet hers
When I see her face through the screen
And it brings tears to my eyes
I miss her so much even though I'm looking at her
Nothing can stray me away from her
No one can ever compare to her
She's the most amazing, worthy, lovely person I'll ever know
I want her to be my wife
She belongs in my life
I'm so in love it hurts
A pain so sweet

Once there was a man who looked out his city apartment down at society and never liked what he saw,
so he left and moved away from it all, where the trees grow tall and the grass spreads out wide.
Taller and wider than the skyscrapers he one stared at in awe.
He grew his beard long and kept his worries short.
Vines grew around his thighs and dirt filled is eyes,
but the only darkness in his life was the star crossed night time sky.
Back in society
everyone continued to shower and shave as fast as they found new friends.
Even though there was no vines around there legs they sulked through streets dragging the heavy weight of their ego with them.
Even though there was no dirt in their eyes they were blind
to the truth.
Their life's were dark and dreary even when the sun shined bright.
Yet they always felt bad for the man who left them and their amazing life.

It's like cooking something for the first time,
burning your hand and never wanting to cook again.
Even though you know what you would cook deserves to be on the menu of some five star restaurant. One that lovers go to, to sip fine wine and stare off at the sunset as they learn how to fall in love all over again. You still can't bring yourself to do it. You can't turn on the stove because every time you do that same fiery sensation rushes through your veins, reminding you what it's like to burn. You shutter, trying to think what life would be like if you never turned the stove on in first place.

Every time he looks in the mirror
he sees the devil staring back
with a malevolent sneer
he sees death in his eyes,
all the lies he's ever told
everything he's not supposed to be
and everything he will never know
he sees a kid, supposedly filled with glee
but he knows all he really is,
is a poisoned **** just trying to grow.
A ****,
trying to blossom in a world filled with trees
everyone knows that bees never pollinate weeds.

Adults tell us that we are doomed as a society. That we spend to much time on our bright little screens. They say our minds will never be that bright, colorful or innovative because we are all so twisted in the black wasteland of materialism.
Materialism, that's where it all starts right? They act like we rolled out of bed one day and decided we'd add it to the dictionary, like no one had ever heard of it before. Do they forget that they rolled into bed one night and created us. Then naturally nurtured us, filling our undeveloped brains with everything we never knew. Do they remember what it's like to be a teenager? To be right in center of the horribly repulsive world of want. Because that's what being a teenager is; going insane over the fact that you can finally make this world what you want it to be and obsessively hoping and begging for it all by the simple age of seventeen.
Seventeen? Most seventeen year olds are incapable of loving simple things, like early morning rain showers or the smell of spring on freshly cut blades of grass. But to our own fault, we want to be in love with the most complex thing this world has to offer; another teenager. Most adults are probably brainwashed by their cookie cutter work schedule any way, so surely they do not remember what it is like to want. If they don't understand being a teenager how can we explain to them the obsession of technology. They bash us for never taking our eyes off of things like twitter and always having a friend to reply to. A lot of the time we even bash ourselves. I believe we don't give ourselves enough credit. Always wanting to see what's new or whats next is not an empty action. The desire to scroll is, even though we may not realize it, a desire for intelligence. We can never seem to leave our brains empty. The obsession with technology is actually an obsession with information. We can, if we choose, channel this into amazing things and maybe end up rescuing the world, not dooming it like our parents, teachers and guardians stubbornly believe we will.