Okay emos....
Today is that time of the year....

Killjoys, Make some noise.
Never be afraid to keep on living.
Never be afraid to walk this world alone.
We'll carry on.
So long and goodnight.

We're almost touching.
we were walking side by side,
you're talking about cabs in your hometown.
I can feel the gravity of your hand, calling my fingers
whispering "it's alright."

We're touching but not quite.
you held my shoulder to protect me from the passing cars.
and for the first time in a long while, I felt so fragile.
In this world where I find it hard even to breathe,
you believed me.

I almost said it.
All I need is one ounce of strength to tell you every single thing that I have ever felt about you.

I want to find home in your collarbones.
Would you be kind enough to let a stranger in?
I want to seep in your being because I'm cold.
The world is harsh and my cracks are aching.

Almost.

Go ahead
hold me a little longer
than usual.
You say to me,
without using any
words at all,
"it should have been me,
its still me."
Like i don't already see
those sky blue eyes
every time i close my own.
Because we're still holding
on to god knows what.
Because it is you
and it will always be you.

I dream of a world
where you're not raging  at me
or ridiculing me to your friends
    for simply  
    my just being me..

Where you're not  throwing me
under the bus  in order
to make things go your way.

There is a lodgepole pine,  
a stick of wood that you fancy
as a staff in front of the crowd

  But like every single one of them--
  it is only a prop  

  to keep you from  falling over..

Wordsmith-formed, your poetic
  carvings
into your staff,   only weaken it

And no one in your selected crowd
  has the courage
  or the substance

to tell you that  the drawn out  nature
of each creative word
only hastens the prop's break.
.  .  .

The weight of the brass,   polished
on your ship, sinking down

will break the mast  at its base..
to that place..  all the way,  down--
the place where you have   c a r v e d  

   your most
               finely

selected word.

She sleeps on a bed of roses and finds a new way to lie each day, forever changing poses.
The thorns may sting but if she continues to sing she would never feel a thing.
The world she knows only grows while she dwells in the shelves and the roses.
She sings to an empty audience and feels so very seen.
The battles fought are all for naught if she can’t be the queen.
The chips aren’t just for poker, and hair ties aren’t simple or plain.
She left it all to answer the call and run until she can feel sane.

Find me a frame
To capture the moments in my brain
Now I write you ballads and sing the refrains
The stories are all that remain

She sleeps on a bed above the abyss, thinking that you couldn’t possibly miss
The cries for a reprise and the screams for a different scene.
The moments when you saw it too.
She jokes and sings and always brings a new punchline at the end of the fight.
The masks she wears are how she bears the pain that’s already set in.
The light has left her long ago and she’s acting as if she can possibly win.
She took a chance to flee from romance and flirt with the dancers in her mind.

Find me a note
To summon from deep in my throat
Now I write you ballads and sing the refrains
The stories are all that remain