I didn't have to tell you I was lost, you already knew.

I guess the way my lonesome eyes wandered over the pages of blissful and melancholy poems may have been your first clue. I read them, and quoted them out of habit.
Asking you constantly why people didn't talk like this anymore, why they insisted on using simple, dull phrases in their speech to depict their emotions.
You said it was because poetry was a lost art, and that describing how one felt had evolved into just plainly telling them so, without flowering it. Making it easier to understand. Strangely, I couldn't comprehend what you meant by that, but it forever made me wonder why people no longer wanted their words to be beautiful.

The second indication of being lost was the way I tried so hard to stay hidden, but always managed to become exposed. My insides always surfacing at the most inconvenient times. It got to the point where everything I said caused people to look my way.
Not because what I articulated was witty, or even lovely, but because the words I said were unusual and never made sense. Thus, I made an effort to keep my voice quiet. So at least then my insanity would only come out in whispers.  

Thirdly, I think you became convinced of my inability to find myself on the day I climbed up onto the roof of my house and told you I was going to jump. I pronounced it was the only way I could ever really achieve my dream to fly, even if it were only for a few seconds before I would collide with the ground. It took hours, but you finally persuaded me to come back down. Promising that you would find me a pair of wings.  

And who could forget the time you asked me my favorite color, and I told you it was gray. When you inquired to the reason why, I replied that it was because gray was all my favorite colors blended together. But that I liked it most because it was the color of your downcast eyes. I still remember how you halfheartedly laughed and promptly changed the subject.

I guess, now I can see I wasn't the only one who was lost.

The world is not ours,
                  (but that doesn't stop us from wanting it)
Our bodies are not limitless; they do not last forever, though in this moment
                                                          ­                                                 I swear, I almost feel infinite

There was a time when I thought words were immeasurable
Those being said, those already spoken, and those yet to be spoken
They are, were and would forever be endless

Some are exchanged lightly without thought, and others are as thunder, destructive and forceful,
but somehow it doesn't matter how they are said, and to whom;
As long as those words put an end to the drawn out silence
(there is no need for them to be meaningful, or even tender)

I used to believe words were Everything
that language could offer us something unexplainable and undeserved
(As though it was not meant for everyone)
I used to think these things when I was young
                                                           ­             (I still do)

Some poems exist inside of us, and others for all the world to see
But what the world sees, we are blinded to
These poems are not spoken out loud
Because no one wants to talk about their hidden, unmistakable flaws

It's a shame really
We listen so hard, but we never hear the poems we need to hear most

Clouds and rainy days are everywhere, with blue skies and happiness in between
(But what comes after the happiness?)

Our lives, it seems are photographs
Moments of joy, snippets of sadness
Beginnings of one thing,
                                 ends of another
they are simple snapshots taken just to be forgotten
                worn and faded
Beautiful, but so often left in a drawer

Outside our lives, beyond the drawers and would-be frames
The world keeps shifting, moving forward,
                                                 with or without us
Fall-painted leaves, white-blanket snow melting
into the beautiful bloom of spring and warm heart of summer

Trivial are our words
We write all we know, inking down our deepest thoughts,
But the paper stays blank and empty
Our words, despite how lovely and important we think they may be,
                                                             ­                have no power over anything at all
The stars are so far away and out of reach, but even the stars
are no closer to Heaven than we can ever be

We don't know what matters
we complicate things, and make excuses
truly, we don't know what really matters in life
(Or maybe we just don't care about what matters until it's almost gone)
In summer we miss the snow,
               in winter we miss the sun
We have become discontent and unhappy with what we have

So these are the three things I have learned,
One from someone I'll never meet,
                                 two others from people I never knew:

Walk in other people's shoes, regardless of the size
See things through someone else's eyes, instead of looking blindly through your own
Write as if the words you write could be your last

you know that dream we all have?
the one where we're trying so hard to reach out and touch something,
trying to get somewhere,
or get away from something frightening.

that's what it feels like.

you want so bad to make my hurt go away, but you don't know how
and i don't know how to let you know it's not your fault.

trust me when i say there is nothing you could've done, or still can do to save me.
i'm too far gone for that.

it's like that other dream we all have
the one where we're sinking so fast we know we can't catch ourselves.
we claw at the ground, the air, trying to grasp something solid, something we can hold on to.
but nothing's there,
nothing is ever there.
we just fall.

this crushing weight upon my chest won't go away
and i'm too tired to push off the heaviness that's pulling me down.
you offer me your hand, and i can't take it
my fingers won't stretch that far.

i hear your voice shouting,
telling me over and over not to give up, to keep trying.
i slowly shake my head and close my eyes, allowing the sleep to pull me in
deeper.
can't you see i'm happy here in my dreams?

i just need to be alone.

You don't want me.
I'm like an old, worn out journal. A thousand emotions scrawled over every page.
Within my pages, there are letters that I'll never send, and secrets I can never share because I'm scared you'd never understand.
I am the description of a lonely heart. Dreams, thoughts, and memories fill every corner of my mind, pushing against the interior of my skull trying to break free.

I'm falling apart.
I've been trampled over and left bent and folded in ways I'm not sure can be fixed.
Every day I scribble out another dream—knowing that I'll never obtain something so beautiful.
I rip out entire pages of memories I'd rather forget.
I've been left out in the rain, soaking up the sky's tears. Sometimes there is so much pain inside me that I can't keep my head above the water. Sometimes I lose myself in that swirling black ink and drown in my own overwhelming thoughts.  
I am the definition of a soul that belongs nowhere at all.

You don't want me. I am only fragments and crumpled pages of a girl come undone.

You told me once, that you were never sure if you really loved something until you lost it.
Did that include me?
I don't think you really lost me, though--I lost you.
I lost the only person that made sense in my life, the only one who knew more about me than myself.
I lost my world.
And it wasn't until it completely stopped spinning that I noticed anything was different.
You had me fooled, didn't you?
Remember the way I laughed when you told me I was beautiful?
I laughed because I didn't believe you.
But I also laughed out of pure joy--I had never felt so alive in my life as I had in that one moment.
That's the kind of girl I am, you see.
I am a girl who can find a million beautiful things about everyone else, but nothing even remotely good about herself.
It's a disease really.
One that's out to **** me.
Because not everything about every person is beautiful.
You are living proof of that.
*So, why then my dear, do I still love you?

Invisible Boy:

He is a boy who chooses to be lonely
He breathes in solitude, exists for it

If you're fortunate you may catch a glimpse of this invisible boy
But only for a moment

He hides behind his music
Strumming his guitar to the beat of his heart
Performing his songs into the empty stillness

He never feels the misery of being all alone
Never senses the ache of an unfilled space
Content in being neglected by the crowds
Rejected by all the spectators

They will never know him
They don't understand

Broken Girl:

She is a girl who is afraid of people
She observes her feet, as she walks

You may see her sad eyes, sheltered beneath her hair
But only for an instant

She hides behind her paintings
As the paint drips down the canvas, her tears melt from her eyes
When the colors bleed alone, so does her heart

She knows the feeling of brokenness
The scars she wears are evidence of that
People are damaged
By the wounds of their own souls
She doesn't belong in this world

They will never know her
They don't understand

Invisible Boy meets Broken Girl:

He sees her one day
Among the crowds
The people he tries so hard to avoid
She walks alone
Eyes cast down
He cannot help himself
"What is it that makes you sad?" He asks her
She looks up into his eyes
"Being broken and alone"
He doesn't say a word, he only takes her hand
As his fingers entwine with hers
He feels a longing deep inside him
It grows and spreads from his heart to his veins
He whispers "No one should ever be alone."
He stops when he realizes what he has said is true
She gives him a weak smile, frail but genuine
He smiles back
"Maybe, I can be lonely with you." She says softly

People grow pale, others stare, and they cannot comprehend what is happening
Something is different, something is wrong
The invisible boy has found the girl that feels all alone

They will never know them
They don't understand

I used to hold your hand, grasp your fingers, and never let go. You thought this was silly, you said I'd cut off our circulations of blood flow, but I didn't care. You were mine, and I wasn't about to let you out of my grip.

Too bad you slipped, floating away from me, drifting farther and farther. And all I could do was watch.  

It reminded me of a balloon I held once, a pretty yellow one I got at a fair; my small fingers clutching it tightly. Mommy told me to tie it to my wrist, so it wouldn't blow away. I should have listened.

As it took to the air, lifting higher and higher, into the clouds;
All I could do was helplessly stand there. Until the yellow dot in a sea of blue; eventually just became part of the sky.
It made me cry.


I think boys are like those pretty balloons, not all, but most. They come in many different colors and many different sizes and shapes.

Some say things like "I love you,"  "I'm yours." or even "Happy Birthday."
Others forget to tell you anything like that at all.
They just hover above you, as you clasp them in your hands, hoping with all your might that you are enough to make them stay.

And honestly, some are just meant to be "let go" or "set free."
Because they're not worth keeping, no matter what you tell yourself.