I have scars etched across my skin
like raindrops that drizzled down and stained
the yellowing pages of your notebook.

I don't like talking about the black outs,
where my mind goes,
what's left of me.

I don't like talking about what triggers them,
or who I am after I come to.

but these scars are physical reminders
of memories I never got to remember.

and every time you kiss them
I think to myself
"maybe even that part of me,
whoever she is,
deserves to be loved too."

and I wonder if looking
at my hands and arms
makes you sad,
or if feeling the raised skin
makes you uneasy
but either way

I love when you kiss my scars
and make me whole.

I am not the sunlight
I am the faint glowing kiss of the moon.

I am not loud nor bright nor do I demand your attention.
I go unnoticed most nights.
but upon the nights of which
eyes of storm blue laced with heart gold
see me (finally)
I am quite the sight to behold.

I am not breathtaking
but i am soul snatching and heart stopping.
I bring tears to the eyes of mortal men,
if only they choose to look with their hearts
and truly see rightly.

I am not what the day has to offer.
but if it is the stars and moon that you choose
to love freely,
it is me that is yours.

I'm a lunatic,
Driven mad by the phases of the moon.
As the moon grows to full
I find myself manic,
As it grows to new,
I find myself becoming dysphoric.

I can feel facade
Slipping
I can feel the veil
Ripping

They say to fear those whose eyes
Grow dark like pools of midnight,
And to cower from those
Who have no fear for fire.

Understand my midnight eyes
Have never once feared a flame.

And though it was a fumble of my tongue,
I once told a priest during confession,
"Forgive me father, for I am sin."
And never have accidental words been so true.

Drive me insane by the moonlight,
And I'll love and live in eternal night.

Change has a strange way of happening all at.
Once.
There was a tale that believed to be never ending.
Built on pillars that boasted victory from the sands of time.
Only the stormss onslaught continued.
battering any life daring enough to venture out.
An incessant cycle of death.
One that only grew more ravenous with every meal.
Only to discover that the beast turned machine some time ago.
Just as the landscape did.
Leaving the inside as vacant as yesterday's tears.
And so the tale concluded.
Not with bang.
Or A crash.  
But a whisper.
No grand exit.
And no goodbye.
For its only a chapter in this ever growing novel of disappointment.
And with welcoming arms does the darkness insist.
The right choice was always so obvious.
And now perspective is all that's left.
So one must ask.
Has hells chains ever been removed.
Or has the minds eye been shut all this time..

At what point does sadness step into depression.
Memories fade to entertaining images.
Yet havent brought a smile for some time now.
The faces that brightened up the days.
Have moved on.
Leaving small keepsakes behind.
But one dares not touch them.
In fear that they too will evaporate.
Erasing their existence all together.
Even now.
Some erode with just the mere thought.
Of what was once held so dear.
What is to become of it all.
Everyday that inches by.
Does an inevitable page tear itself away.
And submission.
Has only brought cold fingers to numb it all.
This transmutation has coiled silently around its unaware prey.
Once was their comfort found in its constricting grasp.
Even now..
Does it not seem the way it is.
For with every precious moment devoured.
Is there one less to look back on.
In melancholy.

Just how long must one decay.
Before enlightment knocks.
There must be a more sensible way.
Than merely staring at a sign.
"Under Construction".
Filling up the time with duplicates.
Hanging them to corresponding sites.
One for growing up.
A few for responsibilties.
Or just one to cover life In general.
Would it seem too ironic not to even finish the sign..
Or maybe just pesimism.
There are just too many negative adjectives to choose from.
With hands stained red from paint and blood.
One would be hard pressed to touch anything more.
Perhaps this is epifany in the making.
But to reach out to turn the pages
Means the story has yet to conclude.
So does remaining immobile.
Strip away existence.
Or just stall the darkness a bit more..
Either way.
The protagonist still draws breathe.
It is just a matter of how many more pages.
Until the last is drawn.

So today I wrote a rant in math class.  I had a lot on my mind and I needed to write about it.
I showed one of my friends and he almost cried.  He said it was realatable.
So here it is I guess.  Tell me what you think.

Yah know when you need to write something but you don't have any paper?
Or when you want to text but your phone is dead and you don't have a charger?
Or when you want to talk but can't speak?
You'd just buy more paper and a charger right?
What if theoretically, you have no money and you can't get any
because there are no people around to give you any?
Then you can't buy anything period.
Then there's no point in talking and communicating.
After that,
after you realize you can no longer communicate,
You block yourself in.
You walk the world alone because you know you are alone.
You feel like nobody cares because there's nobody around to cafe.
Then you stop caring.
You stop caring if there's a tomorrow
because there won't be anyone to spend it with,
That if the world were to end today you wouldn't care.
You'd become silent,
you'd be silent,
you'd live silence.
Even if there were people and you couldn't communicate
You'd still be alone,
because they'd lose interest in you.
You'd still be alone and feel like no one cares.
In a wild free roaming world you'd be the caged one.
You'd also stop caring about tomorrow
Because you can't talk to anyone and they don't talk to you.
What if you could talk but still feel like that?
Feel no one cares because you're you?
Feeling powerless in a world where you don't think you matter?
You'd always be alone,
even if you have the power to speak,
Youd know that'd you be alone because no one would like your opinion.
You'd always be silent because
you're scared to be you in a world that doesn't want you to be you.
You'd grow tired of being an empty shell.
You would get angry that no one feels you matter,
But deep down even you don't feel like you matter!
You still wouldn't care,
like you're reaching out to something non existing.
If you can't express you're opinions then why would you matter?
If you're scared to be you because of others then why should you matter?
Why should someone care about you when you don't care about anything?
You go silent because you worry too much about what others want,
Not what you want.
You fall silent in the world you locked yourself in.
Why suffer in silence when you can rise in noise?
What's the point of being you when you just want to be someone else?
There is no point then if you truly 100 percent feel like that,
If you don't Atleast try to be you and have an opinion then there is no hope.
You'd just be a silent unsung song in the distance of no ones mind.

never before has it felt so good
to stand and wait
as i call out your name in hopes
enough is enough
i touch out and try to feel you
i want to love you
i want to feel everything you are
and i want to hurt
but mostly i want to fade with you
and be you guiding angel
love your soul