she danced slowly,
hand holding the blue-ink pen,
words flowing...
...and flowing
onto the page
with practiced ease.

a loud but quiet plea
to the people who surround.
"help me,
im stuck in a forever loop
of my own thoughts!
they just
won't
stop"

i watched gently.
sitting in a quiet corner
of the book filled library,
watching her.

not in a creepy way,
in a worried way.

i've seen the stuff
she tends to write,
it worries me.

it worries me
to the point i can't
stop
thinking
about
it.

about
her.

sometimes a few words
can make a real
difference
in someones
life.

theres no wrong answer
to what poetry is.

"poetry is rhyming"

wrong.
there is actually a
wrong
answer.

poems are little windows,
a view inside
someones head.

it doesn't have to rhyme,
it doesn't always have to provoke
feelings.

its just words,
that are there
to help
*someone

why do we dream?
why do we miss people?
why this
why that
just...
why.

you stare at me
from across the room,
like im your rival.

im still not sure
if you hate me
or just dislike me.

maybe you're just waiting
for me
to trip
so you can say --

"i told you so"

we could've been friends --
could've been more than.

what did i do
to get put in this position?
do you even hate me?
am i a rival to you?

because im too tired
of pretending
that there's nothing here.
because the silence
is too loud,
it burns my head.

i want to work this out,
where the static
can turn
to rhythm.

when the silence
finally
vanishes
and the burning
stops.

i need:

kanzi apples

unselfishness

grapes

tomatoes

pasta --

shell pasta.

no i want spaghetti

shell pasta.

potatoes

cucumber

a new brain,

tell it to stop thinking about the

what ifs

and the why nots.

maybe also grab some bread.

dreams,
let them float
to you.

don't try
to make them
into something
you wish
to dream about.

just let
the universe
decide.