I sing sad songs to soothe my pains,
And curse the evening when it rains.
I wallow low in self-pity.
Forced to bear suburban streets,
Feel fear where arid country meets
With paranoia in the city.

Stereotypes sadden, cynicisms break
What friendships I still stand to make
In this, my schooling’s final tool.
Emotionless, a way to make me smile,
At friends with whom I should reconcile,
  With hope, not looking like a fool.

In groups of three,
Me, Myself, and I.
In three sentences,
I miss. I live. I sleep.
In three words,
Not Quite Enough.
In three syllables
Ex-Haust-Ed.

The entrance winds behind an imperceptible dirt road,
And if you pass too quickly, its glamour won’t yield;
Tricking you.
Chances are slim that you will pass it again.
But if you peek, and pry, and probe-
Fooling the glamour to slip a little,
The part in the trees will open to you.

Through the leaves,
Over the natural bridge,
And you come upon it.
Indian Steps.
Where smoke curls amid your hair,
And drumbeats school your heart’s own thrum.

The lake will lap on stony shores,
And voices, oscillate past you.
Here, the only shining thing is the sun through autumn leaves,
The only siren a steady note,
Drawn from the deepest woods and threaded through a flute.
The trees’ leaves embrace its call,
And give it back, lovely in their mimicry.
Just like the others who catch their eye here,
You will always choose to stay.

You woke me up,
I was not asleep,
****! It was but a dream

You can take off the mask or you can walk out the door, I don't want the lies you feed me anymore