**** **** **** **** **** **** u **** **** **** **** ***,s uuuu
what the fuuuucl
**** ****
FUCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK
I HATE YOU
BUT ALSO LOVE YOU AND THIS ******* *****

I don't want to start something I can see the end of
we all know what's inevitable;
we all know this tunnel is going to end
we all entered it and know we must pass through it at the other end
but we don't see the end yet, humans don't worry about what we cant see,
with you I see the other end
I see the end of the tunnel and I know how ******* bright and harsh and jolting the light will be,
I'm not ready to start this with you because I know how it will end
I know I will be left blinded, hurting with a sharp pain on the right side of my head
pressure building where you used to place your hand whilst you kissed me
I can;t bare to put you in a position where you have the full power to utterly destroy me
I will bathe myself in fuel  and you will not light the match
I will sit here covered in fumes until they suffocate me
its easier to fall into a coma then burn to death
I would rather slip into nothing on my own
without it being at your beautiful hands.

feelings are so bizarre
i cant even figure them out
im not sure how people write poetry about them
i admire the people who do
In the island of New Guinea there are fourty two types of exotic bird
like *** was that
this is supposed to be a poem and my mind randomly spulrged to the exotic birds of New Guinea
so what are you passionate about?
well i would describe myself as passionate
it is a CURSE
im not passionate about anything
im passionate about EVERYTHING
everything i feel is so ****** intense i feel like i want to ***** or keele over and die
LIKE WHAT THE ACTUAL ****
god. being a teenager ***** sometimes man.

Why is that we all have an overriding need to be pretty,
Girls growing in the moulds of frilly dressed,
Constantly being told "you are so pretty",
Is that all they are?
Are they not interesting, intelligent, powerful.
No they are "pretty,"
Like flowers that stand still their whole lives,
But at least they're pretty.
I refuse to stand still and be pretty,
I refuse to watch wonderful teenage girls trying to scrape their bodies together in an unnatural form just so they will be called pretty.
Be you, be loud, be obnoxious, be strong, be powerful, be amazing. Whatever you do don't be pretty,
After all that's what flowers are for.

The thoughts of others seem so much more insightful and wondrous than our own.
I sometimes wonder if anything  I've ever thought is original to me.
A lot of people have walked on and then off this earth.
All thinking as they went.
Is there enough original thoughts left?
who knows?!?!?!
is there any at all???????
The thoughts behind this poem could most likely not be original.

I hate myself.
not because of the way my hair falls
or the way my lips turn downwards
or even because my body is imperfect
I hate myself because I was taught to.

I'll tell you,
to hate something your stuck with
makes you so very tired of living.

sometimes it seems we're all filled with sand,
keeling over and giving up,
the sweetness that we once tasted,
now seems to turns our stomachs sick.

But I do not believe so!
I will forever insist on the existence of fairies,
wishing on stars, candles, eyelashes.
I will finger paint to cleanse my soul,
colour with crayons to find peace.
watch cartoons to induce smiles,
and wear flowers in my hair.
because maybe the most important things you learn in your life, are taught to you in your first 5 years.

It is getting bad,
it is happening again,
I can not stop it.