I looked down onto the paper before me.
Adjectives scrawled all across it.
Beast, worthless, idiotic, suicidal, freak, unorganized, unintelligent, try hard, spastic, boring, arrogant, obsessive.
This went on for ages, at least a hundred negative words against myself on it.
I looked down at the paper as a tear rolled down my face. I crossed out the adjectives. I smiled and flipped it over, and on the back I wrote a note.
"There are many things I can be describe as... Though, those are not adjectives I would use... But the best I could say? Healing."
I looked down toward the paper and smiled.

My body spun
From one side of my garage
to the other.

In between the pillars of poles
creating space between the cars
parked in the two car garage

perfect family, right?
not even close

I unlaced my skates
tossing them in a case,
unorganized as my chaotic brain

I leaned down to pick up
a mess of what looked
like plastic

like a broken water container
crushed by the weight
of a basketball tossed without looking

being the good girl I was
I picked up the charred plastic
placing it in my hand to
throw it in the trash

I dropped it in the can
letting the pieces fall
one
by
one.

As I wiped my hands
I found a piece I had forgotten
it had the label of Prego on the side
I realized then
It was a broken spaghetti jar

I ran upstairs
to help with dinner.

I asked my mom
what I could do to
She said
"You can run that blood
under a cold water faucet"

I looked at her confused, saying
"Where am I bleeding?"

She turned my arm over
showing me the cut
glazed over my forearm
I hadn't even felt it

I didn't know
that was the moment
I would find an advantage
to not feeling pain

and an interest
in the impure
realization
that bleeding
wasn't scary...

that it couldn't hurt me
as much as the rest
of my life could.

There should always be order, in the planning of your day.  You should stand behind, whatever you do and say  
There's nothing like confusion, not knowing which way to go.  When asked for daily plans, have something there to show.
If you say you are a leader, remember others are following you.  They have to see that you are there, to safely take them through.
Being unorganized can really be rough.  Not finding what you're looking for, can really be tough.
Be ready to present yourself in an organized manner.  People will then follow you, because of you wearing the banner!
By, Sandra Juanita Nailing

The truth is, I’m not really sure who I am.  She told us to draw ourselves and then to draw our souls; so I drew my face scratched and uneven, just as I’ve always seen it, and frowned at the result both in the mirror and on the paper.  The only soul I’ve ever really known was the one that shone through the strokes of the keys I punched, the scrawling of ink on paper in mismatched arrays of awkward thoughts, disorientated and unorganized, shaded different spews of emotion and rearranged through the lens of ever last viewer’s eye.  Even so, this soul that is composed of words that defined me painted a picture vivid in its contrast, though blurry from both afar and close enough to squint, no details able to be made out.  These words that have wrapped around my soul rubbed raw from the time my skin first flinched at the cool March air cannot be deciphered by their author, though I know somehow that their letters flowing into one another say more than any curve of my face ever could.  These words are black and white, two extremes crafted in the pallet of the Universe’s toolshed, and perhaps that’s exactly what I am.  Black or white.  I’m dark and lost and scrounging for some rusting wall or tree branch to cling to as to ensure the shimmering waves, onyx and charcoal in their nature with the flow of blood in its spine, do not flood into my mouth at a rate in which is too quick to balance myself upon them, or, I’m white, drifting snow from a cloud scraping the vast expanse of brilliant blue gazing as a sky above all the world, pure, innocent, unscathed with the potential for creation in vibrancies yet unknown, or to be ripped to bits, scattered amongst piles of cream and autumn leaves drained of their color beneath months of shivering frost.  And so, perhaps any physical representation of my being would be all wrong, because that’s not what I am.  Myself, my soul, it resides in the murky depths of heights I’ve yet to discover, tethered endlessly and uncertain among the caverns of my inners, pink and mushy, stirred and ******, untouched from the harsh light of a world encased in brevity.

Behind every song is a story,
Some moody,
Even EDM has a story,
It is a powerful story,
With unknown sounds creates,
A musical mystery,
For People it's just "sounds",
Sounds mixed and thrown together,
But it may sound all messy,
Scattered and unorganized,
But to create that ball of excitement,
The music is carefully analysed,
Up untill the last note,
Everything is precisely predicted,
Sounds unorganized,
Creations is organised,
Making it is perfection,
An artist work,

Drinking the tea
Soothing the soul
Killing coldness
Reviving warmness
Blinded by the wrong
Missing the right
The sky is crying
The wind is pushing
The sun is hiding
Shaking up her insides

The loneliness gets to me every once and a while. I actually do fine without anyone, but of course taking the time to think about it changes everything, scrolling through my dash on Tumblr, or just feeling the floating aura that radiates off of someone who’s in love…makes you feel the empty pit right below your sternum. And you wonder what it’s like to feel butterflies there…true butterflies. For me, they’d be pterodactyls; I don’t know what it’s like to truly feel for someone on that level and for the feeling to be returned in the same magnitude. This makes me wonder how people rush things. A touch should be cherished, and one should pull every bit of tingle from it that they can before he/she takes her hands away. I long for that, but I've done a fantastic job at convincing myself that I don’t. I can’t see myself being loved that way, so much that he would slow down, be serene and stoic with me, share all his thoughts and vibrations, and not be a total **** that falls into the stereotype of an attractive guy who can’t keep up a conversation. I feel no attachments to the people I've dated. None. Their faces and voices do not phase me like I once pretended they did. I’m drawn in by their ability to intrigue me and stimulate my mind, and then they stop doing it because they don’t understand how it satisfies me.

twisted like the twistie tie on my bread
I look into your eyes and picture whats going in your head
I grasp your soft little hand
and watch as your lips say words that I'll soon forget.
I'm a stupid boy
that doesnt understand body langauge
forgive me sweetie
forgive me for being so dumb
but as our toes dip into the cold water
our bodies go numb
succumb to my stupidty
put up with my failures and my mistakes
and wait for that golden moment
when you realize
that even though im flawed
im the best you'll ever have
in this wasteland
we will survive
and I'll love you till the day
I die
till the day
I die

you said you had been a mess lately.
i ran my fingers through your tangled hair and agreed.
the unorganized chaos in your head sent me into a whirl.
you said that old wounds dont heal,
i said that im just cleaning the cut.
ive always had a habit of disturbing things better left in the dark,
and i don’t think that there is any part of you that i left untouched.
childhood memories and things you had long since forgotten stirring in the dust
i took the paint splattered across your heart
and turned it into a masterpiece,
you said you had always liked abstract better than realism.
the neat rows that i stacked you in feel heavy on your tongue,
and you told me with words that i had already prepared for you
that the messiest thing about ocd,
is that nothing can ever be left alone.

My love for you isn't just a feeling.
It's a civilization.
It's a group formed in unorganized noise.
A commotion of expression purposely existing
the sole purpose of you.
Living & breathing.
A jumbled language overheard.
Stenciled with each patter of foot.
Every horn honked.
Each lane clogged with the thought of you.
A foundation built from the ground up
in means to explore.
A stone age modernized.
Misinterpreted by the desire of fire.
Protected.
Built upon.
Built into the tallest building, which I call your name.
My love for you is like the plane that flies overhead.
Roaring loud in repetition.
Tedious nooks & crannies.
Places to shop, things to see.
All the things I see when I look into your eyes.
My love for you a province of sorts.
The smell seared in a pan. Best served on a plate for two.
A mix of different pastas, vegetables.
Fried in upbeat cafe, different aromas.
The chit chat different versions of me.
Complimenting the very essence of you.
A new building erected with cranes and steel beams.
Plastered dry wall.
Soon opened for your arrival

Why can't I even comprehend this yet?
It feels like we're just pretending, this can't possibly be real.
I imagine myself walking down the aisle to you still.
Imagining someone else waiting for me at the altar seems so fake.
Unfathomable.
This didn't actually happen. You're mine still.
Right?
Wrong.
But I can't begin to understand.
If its bad now, I dread the thought of when it hits me.

So it's 2:37 in the morning and I've been up since pretty much forever now but I had a **** ton of coffee just now and I'm looking at my fan and it's just spinning and spinning and I put it in a black and white filter on snapchat as one does and all I can think is "Woah... It's just... Spinning" and it reminds me of black and white movies for some odd reason which gets me thinking about those outdoor movies that no one does anymore...
And now it's 3:00 AM and Orange Is The New Black is playing in the background while I start to think again and I start to think about this guy who.... I definitely think is cool but who I only half have feelings for.. Not like it matters anyways though beeeecause it is safe to say he's not interested anyways but even so I wonder what it would be like to be wrapped up in his arms asleep because I'd feel safe... But it doesn't last for long because I've started to wonder about elephants and if they wish the same things we do like if they wished to be loved or wished for more money in some weird possibly existent elephant currency...
It's 3:05 and time seems to be moving by more slowly by the minute and I get the urge to dye my hair pink or purple or maybe even blue and then I imagine my skin naturally those colors and suddenly I'm a chameleon.
Then I think back to  that time where a friend said my eyes looked like kiwis and she meant it in a nice way, but then I imagined myself with actual kiwis for eyes and now I'm just kind of confused and laughing in a confused way because... I'm seeing myself as a... Chameleon with... Kiwis for eyes.. And I suppose sounding  crazy is better than seeing myself as fat when I'm not or hella ugly but I mean being a chameleon is pretty ******* weird....

Autumns leaves undo
& all that's said carefully-
remains untrue

Unorganized these
unprecedented artworks
Powerfully heal.