I miss when you were a child you would pretend you were an airplane,
Spread your arms out and run across the backyard like it was the sky
And you were flying over the baseball parks and lake nearby,
Back when your shoes had Velcro straps because you couldn't tie them,
And you took naps every day so you would grow up tall and good.

I miss when you were a child and you weren't always so apprehensive,
You took chances and had faith in your yourself like a bird with its wings,
And tomorrow wasn't even considered
Because today there was so many things to see.
Back when that mushroom haircut wasn't your decision
And mom only allowed you to have sugar free lollipops after the doctors,

Yeah, I miss that so much.

I miss when you were a child.

Ain't nothing humerus about it.

He tells me, "i think you are sad."
But i don't know him well enough to whisper my secrets to him, about the waves that crash in my skull for hours on end. And that sometimes i cry because my mothers country is so far away, and i don't feel like home here, but i don't feel home there either and I'm very lost. And maybe that's why i always look confused and hurt. Because my own country does not feed me. And my mother works 52 hours a week and i hear her bones creak from my bedroom but there's only so much i can do with her feet in my lap. So i ignore it and think about my bruises instead.
I could tell him that I'm so so in love with about 7 people at any given time and if you ask me to name them all and tell you their 2am habits i could, but my own secrets are secrets even to myself.
I said 'my skin is so horribly pale im worried people will see how brittle my bones are.' and he looked confused so i left it.
I wanted to write about my father but apparently having 'daddy issues' is a new trend and i don't want to be part of anything that glamourises my mothers scars.
I am both fascinated and terrified of the sea and i think that's why I'm bound to drown one day, because sometimes i truly believe i am a mermaid and its ironic because my swimming is horrendus. But im also interested in knowing what it feels like for my lungs to fill with something other than smoke for once. So i guess im excited about that.
I think when i die they'll say 'she had good intentions'. And leave me to decompose, which i think is the saddest way to go because 'at least she tried' is almost as bad as 'she was pointless'.  And i dont think i want them to say either. I think i want them to be quiet.
I think about the word pointless a lot because its the word that comes to mind when im asked to describe anything.
Mondays are pointless.
Sundays are also pointless.
Saturdays hold so much hope though which I think is why i survived this week.

I think, sometimes you have to say '**** this, I deserve better than you'

I've been saying that since I was 10 about my parents. Cos they ******* up, don't they? Your mum and your dad. ****, I deserve more than a mother who cared more about a pint than my school shoes. A mother who knows more vulgarities than appraisals.

****, I deserve more than the ******-twig-thin-blonde that I convinced myself was my best friend for 5 years. u little *****, I deserve more than a text every 6 months about how you 'wish we were still friends.' I deserved more than taking the back seat for a guy. I deserve more than your texts to 'keep me sweet' and your promises that are as empty as your personality.

****, I deserved more than the 'friends' that made me feel bad about being sad. As if the complete ******* up of my life didn't have quite enough guilt. I deserved more than their forced drinking, I deserved more than being their run around, ordered around. I deserved more.


and ******* hell, did I deserve more than the ****** ex that near ruined, and ended, my life. I deserve more than to wonder if you're still alive, because in all honesty I tell people you are dead and I've never been much of a liar.

I deserve me. I deserved time by myself to get to know myself. You should get rid of ****** people because I've never been happier

After all this time, I have learnt to write in the dark. See, this jukebox plays every night and it wouldn’t shut up no matter the pounds I fed. Such is the night of a writer; it goes on shuffle and repeat. And sometimes I hear your voice. Most times, it sounded like folding a picture of us and keeping it in the pockets of a stranger’s jeans, probably ending up tumbled and dried. I ask myself if it could have been a painted canvas. It’s just the thought of you that haunts me at night. If you ever do heart to heart talks, let’s talk about haunted houses. Some people get out of it; some don’t; some re-enter just for the thrill of it. I might be all three and I might not be the most played song in your playlist. I have tried several times to write about you, but none of them sounded right when I read them out loud. Some may write what they believe and some may write to believe; I might or might not be both. If I survived writing this prose, how could I be sure if it was your voice haunting me or if you were just a house I sought refuge in? The Northern Lights stays in the Aurora Zone; no one said that they’d ever Go West. Your skin on mine was like a child holding on to candy, I never wanted to let you go. When I wake, I only wonder if you have ever missed me at 3a.m.. I could make a mixtape titled: I heard you in these songs. But you were one who basked in the light. So I guess it’s safe to say that what was written in the dark stays in the dark.

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied.  It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Drowned out emotions

World War III perceived in his eyes

Not the first or last time

He wanted to tear his eyes out

The last sign of his vulnerability

But when you catch him smiling

Oh that smile—

For a beautiful second,

My own demons stop shooting bullets

To stop and stare