No one knows how much I miss you.

How I have just loomed about from place to place,
since you've been gone.

Sometimes I imagine you are with me.
In the car when a good song comes on.
In bed, as I fall asleep.
Smoking a joint on the couch.

I always say I got sick of my exes and that's why it never worked out.
But I know I never would've gotten sick of you.

I carry those memories,
that are so far away, like a dream.
And you have just become a ghost.
Well, more like an angel that once visited me.

I miss you, you know.

Get a job,
and actually go.
Buy your own car,
and try to avoid asking for too much help.
But accept help when it's given.
Be driven, but be patient.
Sometimes good things do come to those who wait.
Even if you're 20 and have a baby,
accept that you are young,
it's okay if you don't have everything yet.
Stop spending all of your tax return
on tattoos.
Don't buy a house.
Only buy what you can really afford.
Failing doesn't make you a failure,
it's a chance to learn something.
Be kind.
Try to smile.
No one expects you to have all the answers.
Grow up, don't hurry up.

I don't know what's gotten into me.
Maybe it's because today gave Ohio a little taste of spring,
or because the radio keeps playing good music.
I always feel better in warmer weather.
I decided to start living healthier.
Get my confidence back,
get my body back.
It's time to start feeling and being better.
I want to learn more and find out what I'm capable of.
Even flowers have to learn how to grow.

Laugh until we think we'll die,
Barefoot on a summer night
Never could be sweeter than with you

I wonder if you remember that
summer day at the race track,
which we had all to ourselves.
I was sitting on the hood of
my best friend's car,
and thought I was going to fall off when you walked towards me.
You had no idea how handsome you were just then.
Full riding gear,
your hair a mess from your helmet.
You plucked the cigarette from my hand and smiled at me,
you knew I didn't mind.
Maybe you were right though,
from the beginning.
Maybe if we hadn't gotten emotionally,
romantically involved things would still be like that day.
We were such good friends.
But I couldn't stop my heart from wanting more.
And I guess you couldn't either.
I still remember the first time you kissed me.

Sometimes I really wonder
if I need God in my life.
Some kind of God.
Except I'm such an ******* that I don't
believe any religion.
I'm agnostic I guess.
But I make the worst decisions,
and my life is such a mess that I can't even walk through it.
I run, I trip and I get lost.
But, I don't want to anymore.
My anxieties are ruining my life though,
and since no human can help me...
Maybe the creator could.

Sometimes I think about
the things that have happened in
my life.
Mostly, that night I sat on
a rooftop with a boy.
God, I get butterflies just thinking
about it.
It was one of those perfect moments,
like you see in movies and think,
"Nobody does that."
But.. They do.
The lucky ones anyways.
He had his guitar and he said,
" I learned how to play a song
that reminds me of you."
"hey **, by the lumineers."
"Will you sing?"
He asked me so nicely I couldn't say no.
So, he started playing and I started to sing,
and it became this magical thing and I didn't even care about how bad my voice was,
because I was happy.
That song reminded me of him for months after he left.
I couldn't listen to it without wanting to cry.

I'm tired of doing this.
I'm tired of trying.
I want to move back home,
into my tiny bedroom,
with panel walls.
I don't want to try to pay the bills
all by myself in this apartment
anymore.
I have no health insurance,
so now I have to buy my birth control.
Everyone seems to think I'm doing
so well for once in my life,
but I'm not.
I am so poor,
I go hungry everyday,
I go without the things I need,
things my dog needs.
I don't want to be 20 anymore.
So I am crying so hard into my pillow,
I can't breathe.
I need help.
Will things ever get better?
Or will I end up losing everything I go broke for?
I don't want to get out of this bed,
I am so ******* depressed.
I hate my life.

I sat and watched my
brindle pitbull
Sophie;
as she stood over the heater,
like the she always does.
Her head hanging down,
ears flapping.
And suddenly I thought about how
one day that will just be a memory
of a dog I used to have,
in my first apartment.
That, like all other moments I wish
I could have pocketed,
this will become the past too.
Maybe, next time she goes *****
in the house,
I won't be so mad.

If this love gets washed down the drain,
discarded like an empty pop can;
If I get stepped all over...

I'm tired of never being enough,
I'll never be enough.

Instead of building a beautiful life with me in my rickety shack,
they jump out of the window and run towards the mansion with a better view.

Ferociously,
quickly,
precisely,
I am picking at my hair.
Pulling on them from the root.
Sweet, odd, relief.
Followed by devastating guilt.
Why can't I beat this?
Am I really that weak.
Just
S t o p .

Is it really a happy new year,
if I wasn't finished with this one.
I didn't achieve enough.
I didn't change enough.
You won't catch me making
a resolution;
life has yet to let me make one decision.
And forget nostalgia.
There isn't any here.
I am trying not to feel sorry for
myself as I sit here alone on
New Year's Eve.
No people, no drinking.
Just me, and a little ****,
and my hand still pulling out my hair.
Plucking away my bangs with ease.

Ah.

Do

not

take my picture.
I am
more
beautiful in

words.

There are two velvet ears
and a little snout sticking out
from the under covers.
She's hogging most of the bed.
I am sleepy from a glass of wine,
two joints, and three bowls,
and a full day that started at 8 am.
There is no snow on the ground
on December twenty fourth in Ohio;
and I'm loving it.
Christmas Eve two thousand fifteen.
A girl and her dog snuggled up in bed.

I have always looked to other
writers for inspiration.
In fact, that's how I learned to
tell a story.
I remember the first author
I became obsessed with was
Laura Ingalls Wilder.
I was 6, and my teacher told me there
was no way I could read her books
because they were too long,
and the words were too advanced
for my age.
She, was wrong.
Then it was a few names I can't remember
but mostly Bukowski.
After reading him,
I knew I found my style.
And the words wouldn't stop flowing
for over a year.
I documented almost every day and every feeling,
but then I deleted it.
I've had three different accounts
because I never felt good enough.
Being a writer means also being
your worst critic.

Never doubt me.
If I want something,
I take it.
If I want to do something
I do it.
I am strong and brave
and **** and smart.
I've never needed anyone's
approval but my own.
I believe in hard work,
and determination.
The world is an open door,
there is always something you can do.
Never let anyone try to tell you
you can't.

The holidays have always
been romantic for me
as a poor, single poet.
But I am not anymore.
Still kind of a poet though..
That's why I always felt the need
for a couple glasses of wine
around family members who asked
about how my life was going.
But now I should feel proud to talk.
But I'm still showing fashionably late,
alone.
I don't know why we play out this relationship so differently than other people.
I suppose I let it become this way;
because that's what I thought I wanted.
Although I'm beginning to realize
I have never known what that is.

Sitting here and it feels like
my brain is scrambling to
find something, or do something
I need.
But here I am,
in bed at 1 a.m on a Saturday;
writing my junk poetry,
smoking what was left of a cigarette
I found in the ash tray.
I had a glass of wine earlier,
which I enjoyed with the spaghetti
I made. (My best so far)
I watched two movies I rented,
and smoked some ****,
and now I am here.
I want to read Bukowski,
but my eyes feel more like closing.
I guess I'll let sleep win this round.

I've started to read before bed again.
Not just Bukowski either.
Last night I finished one
and tonight I'm starting another.
It feels good to sit in bed,
before I fall asleep
and go somewhere for awhile.
That's why I've always loved to read.
Escape.
It's Saturday,
well now Sunday.
No boyfriend tonight,
just me and the house
I stubbed out a cigarette
in my makeshift ash tray,
and turned back to the keyboard.
It's time for sleep.

I remember a time when
I thought my dad was the greatest
dad there was.
Reading to us before bed,
always calling me sweet pea and
making sure my coat was zipped up,
or that I drank all of my milk.
Taking us to state parks,
with a packed lunch.
He always smelled of black and mild
cigars, a warm leather coat
and cologne.
But his breath held a hint of beer.
Which is why I can remember thinking
that my dad was the worst dad
on earth.
Spending too much money on alcohol,
not helping pay for my clarinet,
getting too drunk at any family
gathering and choosing to
drive.
But now, I accept him for who he is.
And I thank him for all of the wonderful things he taught me about nature, and music, and for allowing my childhood to be filled with adventure.
Now, I don't think my dad is the greatest or the worst,
he's just mine.

I remember being a kid,
finding imagination everywhere.
Pretending I was the main character from
my favorite fiction novels.
Magic, and fairies and oddly named creatures.
Snow created beauty and joy.
Every day held Christmas wonder.
The woods kept secrets and mystery.
I spent half my childhood
with my nose in a book,
having adventures that no one else
knew about.
I miss that escape I had as a kid.
I never knew how important it was.

Never let go of imagination.
It keeps you young.
And happy.
Very happy.

You are my sunshine,
my only sunshine.
You make me happy when skies are grey.
You'll never know dear,
how much I love you.
Please don't take
my sunshine away.

Right now,
I am practicing some advice I
once read from Charles Bukowski.
If you can't write; dont.
I must be riding out a similar storm.
Everything coming out of my head
is dry, and badly put.
Everywhere I look,
it seems as though someone
shows me, I don't know what I'm doing.