They teach you in school that the building blocks of life and matter are atoms filled with subatomic particles
But believe me when I tell you that they're lying.
"They" are claiming to be your saviors from what is actually fueling your bloodstream.
Protectors of your sanity
But believe me when I tell you it's fraud, a scheme of words that are meant to prevent you from discovering the actual monsters buried beneath your fingernails and hidden in the cracks of your bones.
You see, what the evildoers trains the neurons in your brain to understand is that the demons in your skin cells are atoms filled with subatomic particles.
This is what you know and you know it for a fact until the time comes for the poltergeists within you to attack.
They line up and pluck away at the petals of your once "protected" sanity one by one until you're convinced he loves you not.
Your defense has been destroyed and the demons flood in with no intention to come back out.
The swarms of beasts taking over every aspect of your being is what is now going to cause a new feeling called "numbness."
Your last memory of peace is permanently shattered.
This is called growing up, kids.

The sky transformed in a matter of seconds
From a bright powder blue
To a sickly gray that reminded me of my darkest days.

The teardrops from the sky came trickling down
bit by bit
Slowly picking up speed
As I could hear the pitter patter on the window sills.

I walked over to my window to watch the show.
To watch the raindrops maneuver its way
past the nooks and crannies of the trees
and soak up into the ground.

I noticed something odd.
Right outside my window, lied a spider web.
A huge one, about two feet in diameter
And in the center, sat a beautiful maroon colored spider,  curled into a ball to protect itself from the penetrating water droplets.

The web had to be one of the most
beautiful creations I'd ever seen.
How could something so minuscule
Create such a wonderful piece of art all on its own?

But as I was looking at this web
I was watching something devastating.
All of the spider's hard work
Was being battered by the rain.

The web was shaking violently back and forth.
Surprisingly, it was remaining mostly intact.
Unlike the fragile spider,
Clinging onto the strings of its creation for dear life.

The rain continued beating down
As I stood there admiring the web's strength.
The web was withstanding everything the storm threw it's way.
But its soul, the creator, didn't seem strong enough to.

The storm faded away.
The web, a little beaten down,
managed to stay strong enough to survive.
The spider, however, did not.

This reminds me of myself, you know.
Beaten down with words, mockeries
Beaten down by my past
My memories

I keep my outer shell perfectly intact
So that no one knows what is really going on inside me.
When in reality, my soul is dying.
My depths are shallowing, just like the spider.

I am not the only one like this.
I was oblivious to this fact
Until I watched this spider
Take his last breath before drowning.

Why couldn't the spider be as strong as its outer shell?
Why can't I be as strong
as I make myself out to be?
Maybe I'll find out one day.

In that moment, every neuron in my brain was perfectly aligned.
They knew something I didn't, and I don’t think they wanted to tell me, either.
I had to figure it out on my own, hoping to not be mislead.
You whispered to me that you enjoyed stealing the moisture from my lips
and I whispered back that you took the oxygen from my lungs in the process
but I liked the crushed, suffocating feeling in the pit of my chest as I secretly long to feel it again.
I tolerated the bags under my eyes as my face buried in your neck became more and more important to me (it started to feel like home)
and told me not to be ashamed of them because they were proof that you had gotten the attention you deserved.
My sleepless nights resulted in page after page of the notes I took so I would eventually know your soul like the back of my hand.
I only like to write when I’m suffering from insomnia anyways, because that’s when things start to make sense. (Like you, you made sense to me)
Just like things only make sense to you when your breath reeks of intoxication.
I studied the veins on your wrists until I knew them well enough to see the picture with my eyes closed
as you studied my fingertips and made me believe that you could perfectly connect the dots of my pores and still know it was me even if you went blind.
You wanted to know me as well as my worn bed sheets, which gently caresses every part of my exhausted being each night, inch by inch.
I can’t help but smile as I write this, no one was as determined as you.
I was pretty **** determined as well, if I do say so myself.
I longed to know everything about your insanity.
You must have been pretty insane, smoking on the back porch with your friends and still making sure you didn't forget to ask me how my day was.
Again, it makes me smile realizing someone was so hell-bent on knowing me.
Tell me what you remember.
Every detail.
I want as many memories to flood back into my brain so that maybe in some way, I can feel it again.
I was used. Your back-up plan.
You were lost, and you wanted to feel loved temporarily until a better offer came along.
I was lost, and I wanted to feel loved permanently, so I fell for it.
The closest thing to what I had been searching for for so long slipped away like sand through the cracks between my fingers, not leaving a trace behind.
In a way, I should be thanking you.
You've gotten more poems out of me than anything else in the longest time
and now you’re good-for-nothing except curing writer’s block.

I was walking down a path unknown to most.
An old road that was once overused
Now full of cracks speckled with rocks
here and there.

This path was a favorite of mine.
A place where I could wander
And be myself
With only nature to judge me.

I was walking on a chilly October afternoon
as something caught my attention in the corner of my eye.
A little flower, just a sapling
Standing ***** in between the cracks of this old road.

"What are you doing here, flower?
Are you lost?"
"Nonsense," it replied to me.
"I've found just what I was looking for."

This flower was unlike any other I'd seen.
Its petals were soft, like bed sheets just out of the dryer.
How was it surviving here?
How was it surviving between the cracks of this old road, unknown to most?

I separated the flower from its roots and carried it with me.
We shared our secrets with each other
We conversed for hours
We developed the kind of friendship I had been seeking for longer than I can remember.

The flower had the sweetest scent
The smell of nature, the smell of dirt,
The smell of rain.
All composed into one scent erupting from the petals.

That scent died one day.
Slowly, it began to slip away.
The life of the poor sapling drained as if slipping through a funnel into an empty sink.

Why would God do this to me?
Why would he take my best friend
and all of my secrets and feelings
and thoughts with him?

I had something special
But I knew it was too good to be true
Why did I separate the flower from its roots, only for our love to die a few days later
Along with it's soul?

Why must I be so thoughtless..

It's not my fault that you're a catastrophe that outshines entire galaxies,
and that the remnants from your explosion lies within my own body
and the bodies of everyone who has the privilege to experience your beautiful tragedy.
Felt from light-years away,
you exceed the amount of love the sun provides everything in its wake,
and you're a burst of color who's shades travel at record speed
impaling everything in your path in a flash so blinding
that even my heart can't see straight.
You're the most violent event ever known
but I'm anything but destroyed.
You  can blow yourself apart as many times as you want
but I'll never see you as simply the death of something beautiful.
Instead I see you as the puzzle pieces that create universes you'd never imagine when put back together.
Long story short,
you're cataclysmic to life as we know it,
but you're everything I need to feel together again.

What if our paths never cross?
What would we do then?
I don't know exactly who or where you are,
or if you're even looking for me.
But what I do know is that I really, really
hope you're trying.

Being in a large dark room with nothing but rows of emptiness was the least lonely I've felt in such a long time,
with the ends of your hair poking at my temple and my eyelashes fluttering against your cheek, I caught a glimpse of the entire world without ever setting foot outside of that room.
It probably wasn't the world you're thinking of, though.
In you, I saw streams for veins and earth for eyes and entire ecosystems in your pores.
I want to rip each of the hairs out of my head one by one because my hands don't know what else do to when you're not around
and when your fingertips lightly trace my jawline you tell me I'm the most beautiful work of art you've ever seen in your entire existence.
Your existence is such an important thing though and my brain can't wrap around how it possibly came to be considering so many flaws were thrown together so perfectly that something astonishing was created,
but what's even more astonishing is the fact that I love every bit of it and being so ******* happy is about to drive me insane (in the best way possible).

The first thing I do each morning is wonder if you had a better night's seep than I did.
I don't sleep much these days, and I know you don't either, even though you don't want to admit it sometimes.
I know, though.
And each morning when I lay there in a daze I think about how strongly I long to know that you were finally able to experience the "sweet dreams" I told you to have the night before.
**I've never longed for anything as much as this.

Why do people
expect so much more
of you than
what you can actually deliver?
What if I say
I'm just done
trying to please you?
What happens then?