And if you choose to stay,
Mark my words:
"I AM LOVE; and my love will not stray."
My breath is like the wind; my lips are the sky.
Be careful where the words of lighting strikes,
Love will not die.

I don't know how to express to you in a non-toxic way that you make me want to **** myself. And I know that isn't your responsibility to carry, but I swore there was some part of you that cared about me.

I can not follow you through the holes and lanes of the skinny people, the ones you glide effortlessly through with no concern for leaving me behind.

All life is
Is a nonchalant death trap.

I cant see to write. My tears have blurred my vision and the paper is soaked.

I'm waterproof
Standing under His waterfall.

My weapon of choice,
Tonight,
Is a pen,
So pardon me while I write.
Its not a blade,
Its not a light.
Its not smoke held from my lips,
Just words that are held before my sight.
You should be proud of me,
For what I didn't do tonight.
Because for once in my life,
I did what's right.

A week ago today I got the news,
A friend of mine had been killed in a car crash,
Along with a boy from my school,
And two other friends were injured.
On Wednesday the whole school had a memorial for anyone who wanted to say goodbye.
I wasn't ready to.
And I'm still not. I feel weak.

Why would I expect anything different this time around,
From the girl who drove my heart into the ground,
And left my sanity nowhere to be found,
With my mind ******* and bound
To the memory of the sound
Of the way her heart pounds.

What happened to the love I used to show?
To that one girl,
or boy,
that I used to like?
What happened to my love for them?
Now I just flirt.
And its not a loving flirt,
its an empty,
and soul less flirt.
I've turned into a *****.

What if:
Our religion decided where we go.
Where we believe paradise is.
And those who believe nothing are stuck in limbo or come back
through reincarnation
To their paradise
Earth.

I look in the mirror,
and what do I see?
I see pain.
I see no beauty,
Only an ugly face,
And a fat body.
I see red marks all over my legs,
And on the inside of my arms,
They're ugly.
They're imperfections.
And then I feel horrible,
So horrible to the point that I make more,
And more,
And more.
And then I feel even more hideous.
It feels like a never ending cycle.

I. Sexuality (textbook definition) - capacity for ****** feelings.

II. Sexuality (urban dictionary) - having been born liking either males or females. Sexuality encompasses being gay, bi, straight, lesbian, *******, or transgendered. Sexuality is the drive designed in humans to what they are attracted to. Most people mistake the word lifestyle for sexuality which is why there is ignorance in our country.

III. Sexuality (to homophobes) - a sin unless you like your opposite gender. No exploring your sexuality before marriage. If your sexuality is anything but straight you're going to hell.

What is sexuality when you develop a sexuality before you even know what *** is?

How is something a sin when it's developed before you reach kindergarten?

I knew I liked girls before I knew how read.

How did I choose to be gay when I have no recolation of ever making that decision?

So the question I come to ask myself is what, I rather how is sexuality?

What is this?
What can it be?
For I love you...
I think.
I'm terribly confused.
You act as though you love me....
But do you?
I didn't think it was possible.
I didn't think I was your "type".

What lies beneath,
We may never know,
Of a magical monster afraid to show.
They swim in the deep,
Never to peak,
At the world they are soon to know.
With the head of a human,
And the tail of a fish,
This magical creature lays below,
Told by a man,
From centuries ago.
Their beauty's amazing,
Their sirens are deadly,
This magical monster lays below.

Some might say that poetry is a beauty
An artistic masterpiece
Crafted by a person with magic
Flowing from their fingertips
Others might say that poetry is the sky
Dark at times
But always beautiful with something new each day
And each cloud having its own story to tell.
To me, poetry is my soul.
It's the journal
Of my journey
Called life
It's my outlet
My way of expressing words
Onto paper
Rather than from my mouth
In the most elegant and graceful
Way possible.
I am not a poet.
I am poetry.

I hate lying about them.
I hate making excuses about it.
I hate having to hide them.
I hold them precious to me.
Hopefully one day,
I will look at them and smile,
Because then the pain will be gone.
I will have made it through.
But that light at the end of the tunnel is so far away.
What if that light is just a train?
With the head lights glaring at me?
And its not me thats moving towards the light...
Its the light thats moving towards me?
I feel that I'm on the road to disaster,
And I'm only at a pit-stop.
Eventually,
As I fear,
I will get back on that road.
I dont want to go back,
But I'm not sure how not to.

If I could draw a picture to describe Heaven,
Then I would but I can't and maybe that's Gods will,
The grace of beyond shouldn't be bestowed upon all eyes,
But with the preview I saw with my departed loved ones,
In that tiny white room
With my grandfather in the corner,
Observing...
Curious for someone who is yet to be departed.

Who am I?
What am I?
The way she makes me feel,
Its just...
Wow.
She makes me feel alive,
And new.
No man has ever done that for me.
It makes me wonder...
Who am I?
What am I?

You are the bags under my eyes
The bruises on my arms
And the cuts on my leg.

You are hour 50 of sleepless torture
8 cups of coffee a day
And another regretted bite.

You are the "I'm fine"
The little fibs that leave my lips
As part of my daily routine.

You are the tornado of thoughts
The flood of blood
And my beautiful nightmare.

This is who you are to me.

Why am I still here?
Why am I still breathing?

As a kid, at about 6 or so, my father and I would go down to the lake and skip rocks.
At first mine would only go a few skips, but my fathers would go nearly 30.
Then I practiced and practiced.
By the time I was 7, I could make it to 15 skips.
By 8 I was at 25 skips.
By 9 mine could go farther than my fathers.
It was that day when my rock went 30 skips that I gazed wide eyed at the world.
I sat on the bank and stared at the lake.
I looked up at my father and asked a very dramatic question for a 9 year old.
"What is the meaning to life? Why do we live?"
Puzzled my dad asked "What do you mean?"
I responded with " I just spent 3 years trying to beat you, at skipping a rock across water of all things. So why?"
Still to this day 7 years later I don't have an answer to that question.

Love is delicate and beautiful. Think of it as a flower. If you dont treat it right it will wilt and die. And sometimes even when you do everything perfectly,  it still dies. But thats okay. You take a petal from the dead flower and press it into your scrap book. You move on and plant another flower. You will love romantically but only if you open up. You are a very closed off person.  You cant expect others to love you when you dont show them anything to love. You are loveable and I love you. You will **** a lot of relationships and thats okay but one day you will find one that you would rather die yourself than to watch that flower wilt.

The nights of the bitter cold winter,
Leave me lying awake in pain.
But they dont come close to being able to compare,
The pain that you left me in my heart.

You told me to write about the trees and the flowers.
But what you didn't realize is its winter.
The trees are bare
The flowers are dead
And so am I.

And in that moment I wished for nothing more
Than my lips on yours
And you didnt have a clue.

I feel like with you gone that
I remain forever breathless
Never to see you again
You're still alive but
Held away from me
I want and need you back
I love you
Because *** without you
I'm not me.

So many words flowing through my head...
How can they translate,
And flow,
Into a beautiful creation,
Such as a poem.

I write many poems,
When I talk,
The words flow out,
So beautiful,
Like poetry,
Like a true poet.
But,
Then when they go to paper,
They're clumsy as ****,
They don't make sense.
They're just like my mind.

I wrote one poem,
Earlier today,
That I really wanted to share.
But its so sad,
And depressing.
It would cause people to worry,
Theres no need to worry.
My words are great,
My poetry is fine,
And my mind is destroyed.

With all the things I say,
If you listen close enough,
To the words coming from my mouth,
And then read my poems,
Is there much difference?

Some things,
They cant be described in words.
Those are the things that are never explained.
They're just pushed aside,
And then eventually let go,
In tears.

If I could show you the world,
Would you go with me?
Would you be daring enough,
To take that crucial first step,
Out into the light,
And out into love?

Because darling,
I can show you the world.
A world in the way in which you never thought imaginable.
A different world,
With no shame,
No hate.

This world,
This is what I see when I look at you.
Let me show you,
This magnificent world,
That I see in you.

Time may heal all wounds,
But it kisses goodbye with scars.

I think that
Writing a poem is hard.
Maybe not just
A few words
On a few lines
But a masterpiece
Of your soul
Transformed into words
Called a poem
That transformation is hard
But oh they say
Poetry is easy
Anyone can write a poem
But few can write it in
The ink
That their soul bleeds.

These feelings,
They tear me apart inside.
I don't know what to do.
It feels right,
But at the same time,
It feels so wrong.
I can't help but to think about it,
And when I do,
I feel that my soul is on fire.
I feel that I'm about to go into a panic attack.
I want to be normal,
But more than that,
I just want to be happy.

Im not worth the pain I put people through.  
Its like my subconscious thinks its some sick joke.

"What the **** did I just do?"
That line keeps repeating over and over in my head.
It made me so happy,
But the guilt is eating me alive.
What the **** did I just do?
And why did I do it?

I can't tell you what it's like to feel like dying.
I can't tell you how I'm so afraid of death but I play with it like its a childhood friend.
I can't tell you what it's like to cry yourself to sleep for the 47th night in a row.
I can't tell you how I feel when I wake up screaming in the middle of the night.
I can't tell you, but I can show you.
I can show you what it's like to feel like dying in my playful smile and dull eyes.
I can show you what it's like to be afraid of death but play with it because I have scars on my body but I refuse to go to a funeral.
I can show you what it's like to cry yourself to sleep for 47 nights in a row by my blood shot eyes and bags underneath with tear stains covering my pillow.
And I can show you how It feels to wake up in the middle of the night screaming by the empty Xanax bottle in the bottom of my purse.
I can't always tell you the things that are going through my mind, but you can't say that I never showed you.

Things I ask myself,
They have already been asked to me by others dear.
But no matter the asker,
My answer remains the same.
Would I go all the way with you?
Follow you to the end of the world?
Would I?
With no gaurentee that you wouldnt just shake me off and go on with your life like I was  never even there.
I don't have that gaurentee...
Would I follow you to the end of the world?
Just on the basis of a delusion,
That I think was falsly approved.

You tell me tells,
Of her,
And your new found happiness.
Good for you.
I found someone too,
Just not in the way I had expected.

You have no idea how much I care about you,
How much I love you.
You have no idea how fast my heart races whenever I see you,
And how I feel like I cant breathe when you're not around.
You have no idea the feeling that I get when you're holding me,
And kissing me.
You have no idea how much you mean to me.

You must hate me.
You yell at me,
And treat me like a dog.
I hate me,
So why shouldn't you?
It only makes sense.
The more you hate me,
The more I hate myself.
I try to change,
Or be a better person.
I don't understand what I'm doing wrong...
Other than everything,
Apparently.

When I was younger,
I was told "Your teenage years will be the best years of your life."
Well then,
****.
Can I turn around?
And grow young,
Instead of grow old?

When I was younger,
I imagined my teen years as parties,
And sneaking out late to see the boy that my parents hated.
I imagined being the prettiest,
And most popular girl in the school.
I imagined everything but this.

As a teen,
If this is the best years that I'll get,
Then let me be done now.

Because as a teen,
There's drama,
And ***.
Drugs,
And suicide.

Nobody ever mentioned that...

Nobody ever told me that I might not grow up to be normal.
That instead of sneaking out to see the boy that my parents hated,
I would be sneaking out to see a girl,
That my parents had no clue about.
Nobody told me about these feelings I would have,
The feelings I hate more and more by the day.
Nobody ever told me that I'd get addicted to a thin piece of metal.

My teen years didn't turn out how I thought they'd be.

Instead of parties,
I stay at home,
Alone,
In my room,
Because I hate everyone.

Instead of being the prettiest,
And most popular girl in the school,
I'm the ugly,
Emo one,
That everyone hates.

Nobody ever told me my teen years would be filled with hate.
Hate about everything that makes me up.
They hate me because I'm fat,
Because I'm gay,
And frankly,
Because I'm smarter than them.

People just told me that my teen years would be the best I would ever live,
Well that's just great.

You say you're sorry?
Stop.
Just stop.
Its only empty words,
And lies.
You're not sorry,
You never were,
And you never will be.

Anxiety is rocking back and forth at 1am like a small frightened child.
It's slowly pulling every single hair out of your arms.
It's biting your nails, and picking at your skin.
It's those tiny snaps that make no noise.

Anxiety is taking a curve at 110 mph.

Anxiety is my red hair.
Its the first thing that people see about me, and the first thing they assume is fake.

Anxiety is puking. Having no control over your body and becoming physically ill.

Its replying to a text message .2 seconds after it was received and then turning off your phone because you don't want to see the other persons response to your swift reply.

Anxiety is noticing. Its noticing the minute changes in tone, posture, manurisims and ticks, music choices when you are around, and how often they use descriptive words that could subconsciously be describing you.

Anxiety is failed medications, after failure, after failure, after failure, after failure, after failure. You become the failure.

Anxiety is a broken record.
Knowing that everything is fine, still panicking at the drop of a pin.
Its replaying conversations you've had with others over the mental dispute of one tiny word, even years after the conversation occurred.
Its overthinking.
It's constantly wondering if your hands are in the right position, if your resting ***** face is showing, or if you have a hair on the wrong side of your part.
It's locking the door, both locks, checking the locks, leaving, turning around and checking the locks again, leaving, and then turning around to make sure the iron is off.

Anxiety is not ordering food because you don't want to talk to the wait staff, nor eat infront of others because you know you will make a mess of yourself.

Anxiety is constantly being a clumsy fool. It's things you can't control and it's faceplants on concrete.
It's making plans in advance, way in advance. It's asking your friends what their plans for New Year's Eve are, even though it's only March.
It's wanting to ask a girl out on a date, even though you have been on multiple with her, and trying to schedule it two and a half months in advance.

Anxiety is lists.
It's remembering what time you brushed your teeth this morning, but forgetting the childhood story your friend told you 5 minutes ago.
It's repeating yourself because you forget your own words from 5 minutes ago.
It's looking in the mirror and seeing a stranger.
It's waking up while driving down the road, having no clue what's went on in the past 24 hours.

Anxiety is like drinking on a hangover.
It's mental, it's physical, it's psychotic.
It's seizures, it's palpitations, it's hospital trips with whispers of a straight jacket.

Anxiety is more than being afraid of a stage, anxiety is the downfall of me.