There are some
Who are fireworks
They light up the sky
Earn lots of "ooh"s and "ah"s

Then there are the flames
The ones who light the fireworks
Their job is important
They allow the fireworks to shine
Some notice them
But not many

And finally there are people like me
The matchsticks
Yes,
Just the wooden bit
We don't get noticed
We don't shine like the others
All we do
Is burn away
So others aren't burnt

We are useful
But not necessary
We don't dazzle
And we are easy to come by

In this world
Of fireworks

I'll probably start my night on here
Reading these words
Right here on hellopoetry
Then around 2 am I'll be too tired
And the words will blur
And make no sense

Next I will replay
Everything I did that day
And criticize it
What did I do wrong?
How many mistakes did I make today?

I may fall asleep
Stay that way maybe an hour
Maximum

Then I'll have a nightmare
Wake up tears streaming down my face
I'll probably sneak out then
Just to get away

Then I'll wait till morning
The images playing again and again
Through my mind

And when morning finally comes
And my mother asks me,
"How did you sleep?"
I'll smile answer,
"I slept fine"

hands around my neck
I'm dead, wait...I'm still here and
alas, they're my own.

Bom Bom
Bom Bom
Bom Bom
Do you hear that?

That's the sound of my heart beating.

Bom Bom
Bom Bom
Bom Bom
Do you hear that?
That's the sound of your heart beating.

It was first day of October. I was wearing my blue sweater,
You know the one I bought at Dillard's? The one with a
double-knitted hem and holes in the ends of the sleeves
that I could poke my thumbs through
when it was cold but I didn't feel like wearing gloves?
It was the same sweater you said made my eyes look
like reflections of the stars on the ocean.
You promised to love me forever that night. . .
and boy
did you
ever.

It was the first day of December this time. I was wearing
my blue sweater, you know the one I bought at Dillard's?
The one with a double-knitted hem and holes in the ends of the sleeves that I could poke my thumbs through when it was cold I
didn't feel like wearing gloves?
It was the same sweater you said made my eyes look like
reflections of the stars on the ocean.
I told you I was three weeks late.
You told me it was fate.
You promised to love me forever that night. . .
and boy
did you
ever!

It was the first day of May. I was wearing my blue sweater,
although this time the double-stitched hem was worn
and the strength of each thread tested as they were pulled
tight against my growing belly. You know one.
The same one I bought at Dillard's?
The one with holes in the ends of the sleeves that I
could poke my thumbs through when it was cold but
I didn't feel like wearing gloves?
It was the same sweater you said made my eyes look like
reflections of the stars on the ocean.

The SAME sweater you RIPPED off my body
as you shoved me to the floor,
calling me a *****,
telling me
you didn't love me
anymore.

Bom Bom
Bom Bom
Bom Bom
Do you hear that? That's the sound of my heart beating.

Bom Bom
Bom Bom
Bom Bom
Do you hear that? That's the sound of your heart beating.



Do you hear that? Of course you don't.
That's the silence of my womb because you
RIPPED OFF MY SWEATER.

The desire to be an artist,
To be a poet, to be immortal.
Knowing there's a land of words
If I can only reach the portal.
Drown in ****** and Wine
In a tub filled to the brim,
Letting France run down my throat,
Letting France run down my chin.
Words lay at the bottom
Of every bottle (or so they say)
Convincing us it's worth the *****
And the headache the next day.
Kiss goodbye the sound mind,
And enter insanity.
Welcome to the world of arts
With streets of vanity.
There stands Shakespeare on the balcony;
Kurt Cobain sits in the corner.
This place you are one
Where anywhere else you are a foreigner.
Here there is no day.
Here there is only night.
Here you sit making art
By the candle light.
But here there is no laughter,
For an artists knows no joy.
Instead here lies the dreams
Of all the dead girls and boys.
And here there is no rest,
For an artist knows no peace.
Here is the land of artists.
Is it everything you dreamed?

Don't say,
"I'm ugly"
You'll insult nature

Don't say,
"I'm a mistake"
You'll insult God

Don't say,
"I'm sad"
You'll insult your parents

Don't say,
"I'm lonely"
You'll insult your friends

In fact,
Don't say anything
You'll insult something

You can think it,
But even if it's true,
**Don't say it