I don't know how much longer I can stand it...
This banging against my head,
the real me trying to get out,
will the pain ever stop?
Or does the real me have to shatter it's shell
to break free and end this pain?

You look in the mirror and see every flaw
     on you face,
Then hold your head down for every little
     blemish, for all of your minute imperfections,
And that is all that you see, all you can
     think about when you watch people's eyes on you.

But we are our own worst critic,
     and how pessimistic it is
That we can only look at ourselves
     and see our worst.

If you haven't noticed, though, you've
     never truly looked at yourself.
You've only ever seen your reflection,
     a mere image staring back at you.

The truth of the matter is that you'll
     never be able to see yourself, only your reflection,
Something that can never fully capture you
     because a picture is only worth a thousand words.
You are worth at least a million.

So maybe you should stop looking
     at yourself in the mirror
And start seeing yourself through my eyes,
     then you will see that
You are beautiful.

Each drop that falls is filled
with little grains of salt
that hold our pain and sorrow.
As they travel down our cheek
they carry it all away.
But when they fall on our tongue
we don't taste any of it,
in fact, they taste a little sweet
to remind us that once all
of the little grains
have been washed away,
everything will be better.

Maybe it's just my teenage mind
But I'm trapped in the middle of a storm.
So deep inside the eye
I can only remember where it's taken me.
I can't see out where I'm going
Only I know I have to chose.

Everything swirls around me so fast
It's nauseating.
How am I supposed to focus?
How am I supposed to decide?

I'm the eye of the storm
But I am blind.

Our backyard has grown up.
I don't know if you've noticed,
but as we up
it does too.

First the baby swings were replaced
with big kid swings that
you pushed us back and forth on
while we smiled and screamed as it went higher.

But now the whole thing is gone,
replaced by a trampoline.
Even more mature,
but you can't push us on it.

Then we added the hammock,
for relaxing,
not fun.

And now our backyard is all grown up.
The fun is gone.

Now as I lay, swaying
back and forth in my thoughts,
I realize that
when I look up in just the right direction,
the world disappears
and the backyard is just
our little forest.
And you push me
and I smile.
"Higher! Higher!"

So, Daddy,
as we grow up,
some things will
never change.

I love you, Dad.
That will never change.

9 hours.
It's a long time to spend
in an airport.
I wore the wrong shoes
and my feet hurt
with every step I took.
But then I saw the tears
and then her story came pouring out
at me with them.
Dad passed,
mom barely hanging on,
flight delayed,
Sister ill,
daughter going deaf...
And my feet hurt
on my 9 hour layover
to Europe...

It isn't the right word.
But I just can't find the one that will fit
to describe me.

I thought it might be right
until I googled it...
"A shy person"
does not begin to describe me.

I'm not angry at it,
my shyness,
but it frustrates me so much every day.
I sit inside my own head
Screaming!

Screaming at myself,
Screaming out what I just want to say
But
I
Can't!

Screaming at my head to think,
think of something,
anything!
My mind is full of thoughts
but I'm stuck sitting with my best friend
in silence,
my thoughts pounding
against my skull
but not one breaks free.

I don't know the word to say
to sum that up.
Maybe there isn't one
because it is only me trapped in my thoughts
wanting to break out,
wanting to speak out.
Maybe that's why it's so frustrating.

I feel alone inside myself
and I just want to get out.

It's not just the nightmares that haunt.

When you can't separate

dream
from
reality,

that's when it gets frightening.

I hated poetry
when I had to write it for someone else.
It wasn't fun to write
when it was written for someone to read.

But now I write for myself
and I love it.
I love writing poetry.
Those are four words that I never
imagined myself saying.

And now, too,
I write for others just as much as
I write for myself.

It's hard comparing yourself to the world.
It makes you realize how different you are
but it doesn't make you feel special.

It all depends upon what you see, though,
when you look at how you are
strange
compared to people you know,
strange
compared to what you're supposed to be,
strange
compared to those who are, to you, just the stereotype.

It's unfair is what it is,
or what it seems.
Because you see
your sufferings,
sufferings that you get despite the
strange goodness inside of you.
When the stereotype is far worse then you,
far, far worse,
but you feel the punishment
inside and out
for the small, harmless mistakes you've made
and they don't have to put up with any of it.

unfair
Unfair. Unfair! UNFAIR!
It's so UNFAIR!
What's even the point of being good?

But then you look into their eyes
and wonder if they even see your suffering
because they are too blinded by their problems
and you, by yours.

So who has it worse?
Good or bad?
And what about evil?

Is this just life?

back and forth,
slowly,
gently,
but just enough so
I can escape
this world.

I have to look in
just the right spot,
but when I find it
I'm gone
to a lush forest with
only
trees and skies
around me.
No more houses
or cars
or streets
or televisions
or toys.
And
no
more
people.

Just me,
swaying
in my own
little world
from my backyard.

I write only the poems that I would enjoy reading.

Two things come to mind at that end of the year:
1. Thank goodness!
2. Stress! Stress, stress, stress, stress!

If high school was a story, where would the falling action be in the plot?
That's the thing, though,
There isn't one.
The new year comes
and our stories only rise up
and up to the ****** building and building until suddenly

STOP
Do not go on.
Do not turn the page.
This is the end of the testing session.

The sudden fall.
We learned so much, so fast
But we lose it just as quickly.
****** to resolution, there is no in between.

Another year gone like that.
And thus comes the "new" beginning.
A "new" story,
A "new" chapter,
history just waiting to repeat itself.

The beginning:
Of a year the same as all the rest.
Of time wasted.
Of knowledge gone.
Of saying this time, yes, this time will be different.
Of saying it won't be the same as you've made it for the past eleven years.
Because this year, you're going out with a bang, giving it your best shot.

Until it all doesn't matter.
Until that disease sets in.

So yes,
It's the beginning.
Will you make it new?

Hello poetry
sigh
It's been a while.
Oh I hate these encounters,
why am I forced to deal with this every year?
I, uh, wasn't expecting you...
Why are you here?

Whatever, lets just get this over with
so you can get out of my life, at least for now.




Well... I guess you can go now.
It was
actually
kind of good to see you again.


Wait!
Oh, what am I doing?
Come back!
I'm sorry, for everything.
Everything I said about you,
I was wrong.
I was blind.
Why don't you come back in and
stay for a while.

I have a theory about this game, why people love it:

  2        4       2
  4        2       2
  8       16     32     64
1028  512   256   128

The moment when you failure is
breathing down your neck,
then,

row two, column three to the left
now, take that tile down
right
right
right
down
left
left
left

And you're alive.
You won.

I thought when I realized what made me happy, what motivates me to work hard I could have peace.
Maybe it would make me better having this realization.
I pictured myself actually working hard and feeling motivated to something before 9 o'clock at night.

But then I didn't.
Why didn't I?
Why does it seem so hard for me?
It really isn't.

Finding out that I'm kind of just a disappointment because of my love for cramming my life with as much as I can didn't really help either.
I don't understand how it could be bad.
It just means I fill all that wasted time with not necessarily productive things, but certainly nothing bad.
Then, when I'm done at 9, it's productive time.
It's perfect!
for me...
But not so much when 9 o'clock doesn't roll around until breakfast or just before the bell rings.
And I guess not so much when I let them down, even though I still don't understand why.

Is that ignorance?
Like a puppy dragging mud through the house.
Never truly understanding why it's so bad cause he just went out to *** and came back in.
Only learning through the scolding looks and raised voices that he should avoid it, not because he agrees with his parents and thinks it's wrong.

It doesn't really even matter though.
The passion seems to be gone either way so why not cave in and learn to wipe my paws before I step in the door.

But I'm still searching.
My passion,
my motivation,
my strive,
they're all there just waiting,
waiting for me to find them.
So I keep searching.

I will find them.

Some days,
well..
most days lately,
I hate it!
Or at least I think I do.
But it isn't so bad,
really.
I think,
just maybe,
it's all in my head.
Well,
not just my head!
I'm surrounded by these thoughts.
We all,
more like a lot,
no,
many
of us think it is so bad.
But how hard do we really try?
It just comes from our tongues
right into our ears
then straight
into our
heads.

Would I do it all differently?
No.
Well,
yes.
I would.
But not that kind of differently.

I went to that workshop just the other day.
It told me nothing...
Maybe someone there was inspired,
inspired to read a book, write a song,
change their whole life around.
I don't know.
That certainly wasn't me.
I wasn't inspired.
But it did make me think,
why?
Why do what I do?
Why do I challenge myself in different ways everyday?
Why bother trying?
I don't have any pressure on me.
Why not just stop now and take a right turn for Simple Boulevard?
Not one person would be mad at me.
No one will care, but,

but I will..
I care!
That's not me!
No!
I won't do it!
I'll stick to Challenge Lane!
No, I don't know why!
I just can't explain it, but it's who I am!

Wait, what?

I know who I am,
I know when I thrive,
I know what I love.

Boulevards may have their flowers,
but maybe my little lane ends in a lake.
And oh, how I do love water.

Dissonance was banned in the early church for years.
It was the devil's music after all.
And no one wants to hear that horrible clashing.
Music had to evolve into a new species before it was heard.
And yet its use has only continued to grow.
And now there are songs like
"Lux Aurumque"
Full of dissonance,
Filled with beauty.
How can dissonance be beautiful
When it can be so horrible and painful?
Can it turn the tables,
Change what has been thought about it for years?
How can ugly be beautiful?