You were my hero once.
I loved you unconditionally.
Never flawed -- just bright.
I didn't understand what was wrong,
That I was being cheated.
My life wasn't what you told me it was.
I was different, but not special.

I knew you.
Every inch, every breath, every glance.
I admired you.
Sat and watched.
I was your number one fan.

Your smile saved me.
So did your kiss.
Trapped by your arms I could never be happier.
Holding your hand -- flying above the clouds.

But this is just another sad poem I am writing while crying because of you.
I wonder how many of those I have...
What type of hero does that?
What type of hero hurts the good people?
I thought you stood for justice -- fairness.
But really the only fairness you practiced was making sure there was enough of your love to fairly go around to everyone.
Cause like I realized Hero,
I'm different, but not special.

It started with Guitar.
It ended with Snarky comment.

Guitar hit Song.
Song hit Smile.
Smile hit Happiness in a time of sadness.
Happiness hit Laughter and Laughter couldn't help but tip too fast.

Laughter hit Feelings.
Feelings hit Observation.
Observation hit Friendship, but more like Crush.
Crush hit Heart.
Heart hit Words.
Words shook a bit, but hit Send anyway.
Send hit Waiting, but Waiting brought Maybe.
But Maybe wasn't stacked right.
Maybe never fell.
But the other ones did.

The ones that didn't spell your name, but his.
Love hit Replenish.
Replenish hit Happiness.
Happiness hit Life with my true love.

Your name just lingered there, Maybe still standing.

But then Maybe toppled.
Maybe hit Conversation.
Conversation hit Doubt.
Doubt hit Curiosity.
Curiosity hit Coincidence and Coincidence was just too big to miss.

But that was the last part. Coincidence.
Because his name was prettier, nicer, and actually said yes.

But Coincidence just kept begging. Coincidence decided to get there anyway.
Coincidence pushed Alcohol and Alcohol tapped Texting on the shoulder.
Texting plummeted into Conversation.
Conversation hit Argument.
Argument hit Apology, but instead of Apology hitting Acceptance, it hit Snarky comment.
And that hit Resentment and a bit of Anger too.

Started with Guitar.
Ended with Snarky comment.

A Domino Effect into Catastrophe that I think about everyday.

Inhale – Sharp, shallow, and cold.
Exhale – Self- made fog

White on the green, but not too heavy,
Just enough to remind me that everything is dying.

But the beauty of it all is the bed of red.
The bed of red,
The bed of orange,
The bed of yellow,
The bed of brown.
All strewn together is what makes autumn…autumn.


But you didn’t inhale that sharp cold air
And so you didn’t exhale that self-made fog.

That white on green is your skin on your favorite chair.
Just enough to remind me that everything dies.

But the beauty of it all is that you were in peace.

So I’ll lay you down on that bed of red
To be with all the rest.

Because it was your love that made autumn…autumn.

I was sitting in a chair at church eating chex mix.
I began thinking of what I liked most in it
just because a little, brown wheat square fell to my lap.
"Have to save that one," I said.
"Those are delicious."
Then I started ranking them.
And then I started wondering what part of chex mix you liked most.
Would we be able to share a bag?
Do you hate the rye chips that I love?
If you did, would you pick them out and try to toss them in my mouth, making a game put of cereal and pretzles?
Or maybe you, like most, hate the little breadsticks.
I wonder if you realize that if you truly didn't want them, I would eat them for you.
Cause I wanna share chex mix and also a bed.
I wanna share thoughts and feelings and grapes and ice cream.
I want to bump into your hand when when we reach for popcorn at the same time.
I want us to eat chex mix for breakfast.

I just want to write of your beauty, but I'm not Shakespeare
or Frost
  or Whitman
   or Poe
    or Browning
     or Carroll
      or Dickinson
       or Yeats.

Hell, I'm not even Dr. Seuss.

Their words are etched everywhere and they've written of beauty and of love

But I can guarantee that they would write many more verses
if they could only see
you.

They say dreams                                                           ­ 
show your hearts desires.                                           Then to make sure
Does that mean mine                                                     I'm rid of all pain;
is Baptism by fire?                                                          A shower of cold
                                                            ­                                    in the waterfall's rain.


Then I would pray                                                        
under the stars.                                                           ­     I'm surrounded by
In a land far away,                                                          th­e ones that I love.
where there's no planes, trains, or cars.               My soul is now almost
                                                          ­                                      as white as a dove.



                                                        ­     Now a second
                                                          ­   before I wake,
                                                           ­  right before the end,
                                                            ­As if it were
                                                            ­part of His will;
                                                           ­ A simple hug from a
                                                                ­      friend.

Last Good Friday was the day I lost my virginity.
A Holy Day indeed.

It was around 4am when I finally felt that the time was right.
4am on Good Friday.

We all skipped school for "religious celebration" and you made sure I screamed
"Oh, My God!"

There is just something about sin encompassing you in a time of bliss.
Something that makes you forget it's sin.

Probably because the sweat tasted so sweet
The Blood of Christ could not compare.

But I was being crucified along side our Savior.
I was giving something up for you that you could never return.

One day you're taking Communion
     The next a square with LSD.
          God is so mighty
               But you left the high up to me.

The Son made you feel full
     But the drug made you feel fire.
          Isn't it God's job
               To fulfill your desires?

Flower Child, I'm your God now.
     You worship me every day.
          Communion is the tiny square
               And it's to that you pray.

I have a love/hate relationship with change...

I love the spontaneity of it,
     but hate the suddenness.

I love how it takes no time at all,
     but hate that it takes all the time in the world.

I love how it lets you gain so much,
     but hate how much it takes away.

I love the feeling of getting older,
     but hate the feeling of being old.

I love the places it takes you to,
     but hate the places it takes you away from.

The excitement,
      the resentment.

The smiles,
                                      the tears.

The laughs,
                                                            the cries.

The hugs,
                                                                                the shoves.

And the opening,
                                                                                                           and the closing.



It is only but a part of life,
        but life itself is change.
                 Kind of like a square being a rectangle,
                             but a rectangle not being a square.

Will we ever not have a love/hate relationship?
                                                Guess we have to wait and see if it does indeed...

                                         **change....

Why do I ALWAYS let myself get that way? So...attached.
Why couldn't I see? See through the mask?
He was friendly...genuinely friendly.
He made me smile, and laugh...and he wasn't quick to admit his feelings.
When he did, he was shy about it...
He asked instead of took and it was sweet.
He promised not to forget, but I see now, it was a lie. Fake and Cheap.
But, I should've expected it.
I took my guard down, and I shouldn't have. I knew nothing could be done about the feelings, so why?
Why did I say something?
If I wouldn't have mentioned a kiss, this wouldn't have happened. ...It's all my fault like usual.
If I wouldn't have let him read it.
If I would've just taken it away...
The tears and Anger always come and I always ask...Why do I ALWAYS let myself get that way?

Little red lights.
One on my left, one on my right
And two right in front of me.

They stare at me,
Watching my motionless struggle
With reality.

Little red lights.
One on my left, one on my right
And two right in front of me.

They're closer now.
Still watching. Still staring.
Still waiting.

Little red lights.
One on my left, one on my right
And two right in front of me.

Closer again.
Still watching. Still staring
As I start fading.

Little red lights.
One on my left, one on my right
And two right in front of me.

I'm almost gone,
But they're still there.
In one last act of desperation,
I grab at the curtain, only to reveal
The blood red moon of their
inspiration.

Little red lights.
One on my left, one on my right,
two right in front of me,
And one that has crushed me.

One would think that it gets easier.
Saying goodbye.

One would think that I wouldn't miss you so much.
I saw you 4 days ago.

One would think that we have been in love forever.
3 years ins't too long.

One would think that we wouldn't even like each other.
Misery loves its company.

One would think we were invincible.
We have our problems.

One would think we would get tired of each other.
Being strong is fun.

One would think this is petty love.
I like you. A lot.

One would think we won't make it.
One would think wrong.

One of these days I'm gonna take a car and drive.

                                                                                     I'm going to go to the coast and see the waves for real.
                                                                                                          I'm going to bathe in all types of weather.
                                                 I'm going to take roads barely marked and stop in little towns for breakfast.
                                                                     I'm going to crank the music high and have the windows down.
                                                              I'm going to learn how to play guitar and put on impromptu shows.
                                            I'm going to stop worrying about everything and stop taking time for granted.
                    I'm going to leave behind all the people that said I couldn't do it and leave behind the norms.
                    I'm going to stop in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night just to look at the stars.

One of these days I'm going to live my dream,
and I hope that you're in my passenger seat.

I'm constantly living out of a car door window.
Heading to dinner but never satisfied when I eat.
  Always hungering for the next road:
                             The seasoning of the lights,
     The peppering of the people.
The beast within always growling
  Telling me
      I'm
      hungry
  Brighter bulbs to hide from
  More people to not talk to
  More monuments to never visit
          even when I live
         10 minutes away.

But the beast doesn't feed on the lights,
                                      people,
    streets­,
                        noise,
stars, cars and manicured yards,
         Trees, leaves, and jingling keys,
                  Gravel roads, throaty toads,
                             Big red barns and a river's flow.

                                                          ­         It feeds on the want.
                                                           ­                  The need.
                                                           ­          The desire to bleed.
                               The car radio and willingness for the **** I put myself through.

Obese with the metropolis electricity,
Preparing to consume the next one:
   [St. Louis]
   [Chicago]
   [Manhattan]
   [LA]
   Paris
   Rome
   Tokyo
Staring into the reflection of the dead eyes of the person it once inhabited

The hunger smiles in the window.

Running away is fun
[Disappearing] is easy
(It's part of the history,)
but it's never filling.

Bigger city
                            More people
Brighter lights
                                                          ­                   Over and over
                                                            ­                Fatter and fatter
                                                          ­             Emptier and emptier
                                                         ­        Sugar cane in a child's diet
                                                          Fa­lse calories in the form of "homes"

Trapped in a little car,
The driver belting Hallelujah.

As a seventeen year old girl,
     I can only pretend that love hasn't already gotten its GRIP upon me,
           and that disappointment hasn't already RIPPED a hole in my confidence.

But I guess that's what happens when you're dancing on the clouds, and then a storm blows you face first into the ground...

I'll stop loving you when you've counted all the grains of sand on Earth(including the ones underwater.)
   I'll stop loving you when us mere humans can live in a million degrees(or hotter.)
      I'll stop loving you when no children are born and no people die.
         I'll stop loving you when all the stars fade and its only a jet black sky.
            I'll ****** my heart back when all the world's eyes are nothing but cheery and dry.
             When all the war is gone, no one is wronged, and there aren't any tears to be cried.
                  I'll stop loving you when there are no more songs to sing, no music to play, no concerts to hear
                     I'll stop loving you when there's eight days a week and five-hundred days in a year.
                        So as you can see, unless Fate have it be true, I will always be, in love, with you...

I look at the moon, and I think of you.
I try and focus on the small twinkling stars, but your face pops into view.
I try to write the "beautiful" words you like so much, but the color is simply blue, for my feelings are too few.

                                    I know you will object, smile, and tell me that it is good anyway, because that's who you are.
                                   And though I might not feel it all, I'm almost guaranteed to take down my guard.
                                   But something feels strange when I do that with you, like maybe my guard doesn't need to be there at all.

                                                           ­            Maybe I'm just delusional, but I like to think you will be there again...one day.
                                                            ­           That maybe those couple of days, won't be the last... because babe, that would be so real, and I
                                                                ­       don't need real right now, I need happy, but you know that, so I'll smile as long as I can, which is as
                                                              ­         long as you're there, whether you are here or not......

I finally see what the problem is, but of course I knew it all along. We read way too deep into things. We read it all wrong.
See my reading made me like you,
but your reading made you hate me.
I finally see what the problem is,
please tell me that's what you see.
See I thought the word friend meant let's talk about things,
but now I see that that was a mistake.
And you thought the word things meant let's talk about feelings
and you though my resolve was nothing but fake.
See this got out of hand, when you asked someone else,
especially since the day before you preached about being adults.
And see when I tried to clear it up, we were suddenly twelve again,
and I was ignored only for the real struggle to begin.
Words back and forth, but never to each other,
Your words to a sister, my words to a brother.
My name on your lips was kind of like a curse
and your name only crossed mine when my name crossed yours first.


See now I feel terrible for all of the things that I said,
but then again I don't and to you, I am dead.

I wrote a poem about you.
I didn't have to, but I did anyway.
The idea was too good,
Too fresh,
Too real to keep it hidden.

                                                               ­                                It was originally supposed to be about the wind.
                                                           ­                  A couple years ago, I took that title and planned on writing
                                                         ­                                                                 ­  About the wind and my death.
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                            But I lived and
                                                             ­                                                                 ­      I put it in the Drafts folder
                                                          ­                                                               and forgot about it the next day.

And so I wrote about you instead.
It is about our downfall,
Our deconstruction.

                                                ­                                                                 ­                    The one you didn't notice,
                                                         ­                                                                 ­      Just like you don't notice me.

You wear that guitar strap
Like it's the only thing you love
Just like I wear my heart on my sleeve
Cause I'm lookin' up...

"You're my exception."
And then there is a kiss that pays no attention to my tears.

I have a stupid grin on my face.
My blanket is wrapped tighter than his fingers were around her wrist, begging her not to go.
My eyes swell up and the credits roll.

As I close my laptop, I close again my chest.
See, it was exposed.
So long. To the emotions and feelings and judgement of others.
I thought I could handle it, but my gut was ripped out.
My intestines were untangled on the floor.
It's funny how something labeled as "small" is really so big.
Kind of like love, you know?

It's a word. A noun. 4 letters. Nothing more.
But then you see it in action.
You see the beauty, the ugly, the loathing, the accepting.
Some see people holding hands, others see a man dying on a cross.
Some see the covering of a blanket and others see the covering of His blood.

But what enraptures us is what it is like when we are the scientist.
It's an addiction.
We crave the feeling.
We want to shoot up hand holding. We want smoke acceptance.
We cake our face in the ******* of beauty to fool the beholder all because we want to feel worthy enough to fight for.

Every person has this image plastered in their lids.
We see it, day in, day out.
We go to the deli thinking, "Maybe she was the one. Should I have said something?"
We go to the gym just to see this one guy who only comes in on Thursdays, Saturdays and twice on Tuesdays just because he can.
We try so hard.
We match our schedules up to people we have never even spoken to, because it's scripted.
It's in the movies so it must be real.
There must be magic. Fate. God. Someone.
Those stories don't just come from thin air, right?

I think I watch RomComs to reiterate to myself that that stuff doesn't happen in real life.
No one is going to stop me from getting on a plane.
No one is going to come to my place at 3am and tell me that they love me.
I'm not going to go to Rome, run into a lost friend and find love.
That just doesn't happen in real life. It's scripted. It's TOO perfect.

And yet, I open my laptop, wash my hands, put on my mask, open my chest up and start to work on it again.
The stitches never stay.
The sutures are always ripped.
The gauze is red but I convince myself it isn't blood, but rather love.