A love story.
By God knows who.

Dramatic music
completed with a bold title.
It starts with the "average" two people that don't know each other.
One moves into town and is new,
while the other one shows them around.
They get to know each other pretty well,
fall in love
and then find themselves lost and confused
by spread of rumors
or bad timing-- a set up as some say.

But after all's said and done
love warms their hearts once again.
Only to be sealed with true love's first kiss
as everything fades to black.

Or at least,
that's how movies make it look like.

But let's be real.
That's a love story?
Please.
You don't just stumble across your Prince Charming.

It's about getting together with fools,
heart breaks that seem to last forever,
and maybe
once in a few hundred years
you'll find someone who gets you.
Someone who seems perfect;
but in reality
has defects.

Don't get me wrong,
love is a wonderful thing but take a word of advice?
Stop living in a fantasy.

Because, the problem with fairy tales
is that they set a girl up for disappointment.
When in real life, the Prince goes off
with the wrong Princess.

HELP!
Anyone!
Please! If anyone,
anyone at all, is reading this:
H
E
L
P
My thoughts,
they aren't my own!
It's a contagious disease
only caught by those
with cracks in their being.
A sickness far beyond our science.
Something that has not yet found a cure.
It eats me up
starting from the inside
and showing on the out.
This depressing veil is worn
everyday.
I forget
who
I
am.
And while the question is out there;
who really are you?
Yes, you.
You there!
How do you know you're not infected?
Infected with the crazy urge to think
that I'm not good enough,
that I'm not worth it,
that no one would care if I were alive!
No.
I'm done thinking that.
This darkness that corrupts my sight,
this cloud that fogs my thinking,
this pain in my heart;
no more of it.
If no one will help me
then I'll help myself.
I'll be my own salvation.
Because this disease
will
not
beat
me.
Demons are said
they cannot be drowned,
but I plan to soar
on wings like eagles.

Sadness.
How is that portrayed?
My childhood has taught me
that sadness
is merely tears and privileges taken away.
A face turned 8:20.
A tantrum.
"Boo-hoo".
But that's not at all what sadness looks like.
Sadness has bright eyes,
warm rosey cheeks,
and a perfect smile
plastered on its face.
Sadness is that girl that always smiles
but never talks
because of the fear she'll say something
not important enough to hear.
Sadness is that boy that always acts
like he's too cool for anyone
but in reality is dying for a real friend.
Sadness
can be anyone
at anytime.
And all it's trying to find
is a reason to really smile.
To be like happiness
instead of fake it.
That's sadness.

Pencils, pastels, pens,
and black ink.
Sharp knives, razors, blades
and red "ink".
I'm an artist and everything
is
my
canvas.
My world is more
black and red,
rather than black and white;
because what's the point of life
if you don't have a mess to clean up?
Spilled blotches of reds
arraid in the white cracks of the canvas.
A beautiful masterpiece
in the eyes of the mad.
But I need to stop
and save my ink for another day.
Because for some odd reason
I always find my self painting
when I'm sad.
It's too bad,
this piece was one of my best.
Depression aside.
Let me clean up my floor,
I mean canvas.
And put my knife away,
I mean paint brush.
And get the band aids out,
because not everybody likes my art.
They say beauty is only skin deep,
but really,
I've made it to the bone.

Dear Seamstress,
oh seamstress!
Please help me if you may.
My heart,
It's torn,
there's nothing left to say.
I'm open,
vulnerable,
I need help right away!
The red stuff,
it's everywhere,
I'm dying so make way.
At the gates of hell,
I see my demise.
Because I assure you;
I'm rotting from the inside.
With the last breath I take
and my heart stone cold,
I remember when my veins ran red
but not anymore.
So thank you,
Seamstress,
for not doing ****.
You've saved me from feelings,
family and friends.
I'm gone.
But not yet dead.
For I've only died on the inside
and not yet felt the cold touch
of death.

I fell through blackness
and entered infinite silence.
How long has it been?
One.. two... three minutes maybe?
An hour or two?
Five years? Maybe ten?
Either way, I made it
to wonderland once again.
What happened to everyone?
The tea is cold, and there's a note on the table.
No.
No!
This isn't right!
"The caterpillar died from an overdose.
The rabbit by stress.
And the madness has seemed to have gotten to
the Mad Hatter at last."
My heart drops as tears blur my vision.
There's one more line left:
"You're next."
Signed Death.
And as I looked into nothingness,
a voice whispers:
"And my dear, you are not Alice.
And this is not Wonderland."

It's what I do all day.
Thinking of how to fit into society.
How to fix all the dysfunctional parts in me.
Don't show weakness,
tears,
or sadness.
Be a leader not a follower.
Be confident in what you do.
Be photogenic, because
ugliness
is not an option
and your image
is everything.
You have to get good grades
but act like you couldn't care less.
Acting fake is the only way to go
because when you're yourself
they
judge
you.
It's a lot to think about
and takes a lot of energy and hard work
but society has it's demands.
And when I wake up again tomorrow,
I'll put my Barbie face on
only to think of ways to simply
fit in.