'it's the biggest decision"
as if I can choose-
this could be fun,
without so much to lose

there's no risk for you,
like there's tearing at me
no burdens upon who
you turn out to be

and don't dare cry "pressure"
"expectations", I know:
you've got to grow up
to have money to blow

I have to grow up
to have money to keep
my parents alive
as they grow old and weak

I have to grow up
to have money to live
because my parents love me,
but they having nothing to give

you think the stakes have gotten too high?
you joke about wanting to not even try?

keep laughing, my friends,
even as you complain,
for you know next to nothing
about a whole world of pain.

the stories fill with warnings,
from the dawn of time onto the recent years:
for those who seek an end to mortal death,
the only laurels at their grave are made of tears.

it is only by a gods' mere fancy
that such stories ever end in less than strife
for the rest who are not quite so lucky
their short lives make a mockery of life.

Those who sought the greatest gift was ever given,
fall prey to pain and misery too soon:
they wish to see the dawning of the horsemen,
but rarely live to see another June.

A thousands sins seem at once to come a calling,
the not-so-hidden implication plain:
the man who wishes to evade the darkest angel
already has upon his soul a stain.

The bishops and the saviors never want it,
nor do good children who say their prayers at night:
the only ones who seek to cheat the system
are portrayed as far more dark than light.

Through the annals of our books we get the story:
to wish away a deadly end is wrong
we scorn the cheaters of our human nature
and honor all the martyrs with our song.

This is only because we live in envy,
in desperate hoping and in hidden fear
of the inevitability of ending:
that some New Year's we will enter our last year.

We raise up those who dare to have the courage,
to conquer fear and smile in Death's face,
for secretly we wish the impossible
and know that we could never take their place.

A chosen few express this hidden longing
and get shoved back with epithets of old,
whipping out the stories of the devil,
of long lives lived friendless, harsh and cold.

Yet I have read a number of these stories:
and still persist in darkening my heart
for I do not see myself within those pages:
with the devil I will have no part.

I wish for impossibility
for a circle that never ends,
less so as I grow older
for now my thoughts depend

Far more on what the world thinks
than what I think of me,
concerning words like fantasy
and immortality.

To mock what we all dream of
is to deny the truth:
we all seek immortality
and everlasting youth.

To give ourselves lofty feelings,
that we consider pure and fine
is to no use if they are false
yet we preach them all the time.

We are not pure and simple:
we want what we cannot get
we want what we should not want
but we make ourselves forget

Perhaps some day I will meet my end,
but I will not say for sure:
for this longing's part of the human state
and for that there is no cure.

too often we see the battered bodies
of childhood or teenagedom.
sacrificed on the pyre,
in order to light a burning blaze to a rosy future.
set them alight, work them to the bone,
hoping that you will be transfigured when you pass through the door
to adulthood.
and they never mention that it's all a lie:
that tearing yourself to pieces does not mean you will blossom
more beautifully
that wearing down the colorful edges of shapes that do not fit into rigid holes
leaves you with ripped out wings that you can never get back.
you think that this time is only good for what comes after it?
that golden days are only good as memories or funny stories?
you think that growing up means getting better,
evolving as it were
reaching for better things.
and if that's true, then it makes sense to throw the skinny body on the fire
let the blood out for the gods of adulthood
tell yourself that all the work,
that all the pain,
will be worth it
it has to be worth it
you breathe,
when tears stain your cheeks and papers swirl
like a drowning wave of expectations,
that you can never be good enough for.
But when you finally trudge up the mountain to lay down on the alter
expecting someone different to rise out of the brokenness
the gods will only laugh
because:
the person who you hope will benefit from all of this,
the future you,
is nothing but a fantasy.
and you are broken, bruised, and battered,
and must struggle down the hill, alone.
we are not butterflies.
we do not change our shape.
we cannot run from what we put ourselves through
we can only bear it.

just a few years ago,
I would have said that I lived in a world
of candle flames
surrounded by glittering fires
brilliant-lit faces.
but time goes on,
and winds blow cold.
one by one,
the fires dim.
the glimmer fades
few candles are left to keep the others alight,
too few to stretch their light so far.
as sullen faces lose their rosy splendor
and one by one
they cry
"it's going out."
the black wicks of brilliant flame
surround me like winter forest,
and while they can be lit again
the longer the snow falls,
the harder it will be.
the colder the wind blows
the more will join them.
if the wind does not stop
they might not...
might not get to light again.
do not think me morbid:
the candles themselves will not fall,
I pray,
but there is existing as a candle
burned out before you even begin your life
and there is living as a torch in the darkness
the torches of glorious hope.
I light them on fire as much as I dare
but my flame will not last forever
if I am not careful.
the wind chills me as well
yet I persist
for someone has to glitter
with hope
someone has to light the road to happiness
for my flickering little candles in the cold
be brave, my friends,
remember the shining light of years gone by
we are meant to set the world on fire
but all I can see are wisps of smoke
where there is smoke there is fire
*where there is light there is hope

if this is what we must do to win,
to do what must be done,
then I pray for the child who must say that she lost
and I pray for the child who won.

the literary world says there are four types of conflict:
1) girl vs. girl
we have to let the world scar us enough to be normal
but not so much that we are crazy fools.
supposed to be wolves in sheep's clothing,
'look at her!'
boys don't look half as much as we do
taught as we are to pay attention to everything.
2) girl vs. society
you tell us what to do and shame us for it,
but the lies are prettier than any reality we've ever known.
we are going to be nothing but kids,
no matter what we do.
3) girl vs. nature
our bodies and our hearts are enemies.
the world puts us in places where freedom is a story,
and the only thing we as humans were made to do
is simply not possible, or is simply terrible.
4) girl vs. self
every one of these other conflicts,
make us a mirror that changes every moment.
the trick to to find out which reflection of ourselves
was there before we entered the arena
which side of ourselves
has the least battle scars.
or if the scars persist,
than they must compliment what was already there,
as opposed to changing it beyond recognition.

who cares what we do
we are quick burning tinder
every new idea like a spark
they catch and set us alight.
set us off like firecrackers,
blue with shamelessness and
green with hopefulness,
red with anger that the fantasies were wrong.

who cares what we become
we are a gun ready to fire
like the fingers we point at our heads as a joke.
who shall we injure?
perhaps it will be the parents
with their never-ending echos of 'we only want the best'
or maybe ourselves
when the mirror starts cracking,
and our well-kept illusions cannot help but fade.

who cares what we think
we are still-sleeping dragons
young ones, not ready
to take on the world.
and they keep us this way
cause they know what will happen
once we figure life out,
they will wish they had cared.