His hands are ice cold
  They grab a hold of my insecurities
and won't let go.
         He is speechless
                     -in awe, even.

His kisses are hard
               -hard to forget.
   Energy courses through
his lips and into my body sending
        me into shock,
                   falling into him.

His hair wrapped around
       my fingers;
he'll listen to any word
      I say,
         except when I ask him
to check the time.

Driving on the back roads,
          we take the long way
to my house.
   Our hands intertwined
like we'll never meet again.

We stop a block away from
where I live,
     one last kiss
            in the dark.

she said she wasn't happy.
he said he tried.
she said "it'll be fine, you'll like the new guy."
he said "you're the only girl in my life."

I said "why".

he says he doesn't want to see me preform because ... "He will be there"
she said he's ignorant.

I said "why".

if I could take all these "whys" and turn them into seconds it would last the same amount of time it's been since she decided she wasn't happy and when he gave up trying.

I have feelings. I have regrets.

if I told him he'd say "I already knew"
but I know if I told her all she'd say is
"why"

i put these words in my mouth
only for them to be
****** back up into
the vacuum of my mind
that's already full
with things that went without
saying.

there will come a day;
when i take these words and line
them up from the tip of my tongue
to the end of my spine
coated with a substance that
is tear-free.
those words will shoot out like bullets,
and those bullets will go into the ear of
all those i said i loved
and all those i said i hated
and they'll go straight out their other ear.
always completely unphased with
words that could change our lives.
these words;
matter.

some words could fill up the sun
while others could fill up a blade of
grass,
that blade of grass will barely
***** their thoughts
while the sun will go completely
unnoticed.
because,
who really talks about the sun anymore?
and that is why,
the unimportant words,
the ones that are never true,
could be the moon.

it's hard to think of
your own faults
when others
have larger ones.

it's hard to pray
for yourself
when someone needs
it more.

this week i realized,
that when i am depressed,
other people bring out
my grace.

home
is not in a house with
2 floors.
my home doesn't involve a child
or two.
it has an old swingset in the backyard.
a frisbee still stuck on the roof.  
an annoying floor that no matter where you step
you'll be heard.
home holds more memories
and tears
this house will ever produce.

Basically skipping up the sidewalk,
I turn the key and enter.
I pet the cat on the steps,
and hug my father.

(In English, we were supposed to write a poem based off of George Ella Lyon's poem "Where I'm From" and this is the one I wrote)

I am from picture frames,
from Dove and Suave.
I am from the white house on the corner of the street
(far enough from the train tracks, close enough to the park).
I am from lilacs,
from the rose bush on the side of the house,
always humming with bees.

I am from crocheting and complaining,
from Edith, Rachael, and Susanne.
I am from blind eyes with a blue glow,
from "Speak up!" and "Sit up straight."
I am from "Now I lay me down to sleep..."
and old, golden cross necklaces.

I am from Ohio,
turkey, and sweet tea.
From the night my grandparents ran away togethers,
and the glass wedged into my father's finger,
the day god lifted him from the driver's seat.

I'm from the upstairs closet,
sitting beside childhood memorabilia.
Images of faces I never met,
and those I'll never forget.
Bags of animals,
stuffed with imaginary souls,
and boxes of books
which tales will never grow old.

Dear…. ***** face.
Oh, man, I hope you didn't get offended by that I am so sorry… Well, I mean you shouldn't because you’re like the spawn of Satan, right? So… No. you know what? I’m not sorry. You have made me say sorry to such a large amount of people in a short amount of time to things that don’t even matter.
Things I shouldn't be sorry for.
No, I am not sorry for my social anxiety.
No, I am not sorry that I said the wrong thing
And no, most definitely not am I sorry for having a good time for once.
You are not only stomping on my mind but my heart. Why the HELL are you making me panic in the middle of a convenient store with only two other people in it when
I just want my chocolate bar.
I don’t want my cheeks turning red, my heart racing, and my voice shaking like I've been crying for 45 minutes.
And then I will go cry for 45 minutes, while not enjoying my chocolate bar because you’re the one who pushed me out of those doors empty handed and back up into my bedroom where I will spend the next 3 days feeling sorry for myself, but also hating myself. For lugging you around all my life instead of letting go when I should have a long time ago. But no. It’s hurts to let go. Because every time i try to, the rope burns that have scarred my hands never heal. They’re always crying out to me whenever I eat in public, use a public restroom, make eye contact with strangers, and… just simply exist.

I am tired of you twisting and churning my stomach every morning before I go to school, every time I want to go somewhere alone, every time I see someone who’s better than me.

I am tired of you always having that crooked smile on your face every time there are tears running down mine.

I am tired of you.

                          Sincerely,
                                 the girl who you’re possessing.

i hope that someday
i can wake up and not feel like
sleeping for eternity
that i can rise out of
my sanctuary
and tell everyone
how im feeling that day
and i hope i say
"im doing okay."
without having memories
that haunt the depths
of my mind
each and every second
of the day.
i pray that i will be able
to scrub this layer of anxiety
off my skin for good.
that someday
my words will make someone realize
how loved they are
and how they're not alone on this
terrifying planet.
remind them that even though it's
dark now
that shrivel of light will creep
into their brain
and change their point of view
forever.

I feel like i could sleep my life away but
then regret every second
i feel like i could scream what i think
but still get offended
i feel like i could talk to every person on the earth
but then **** myself for it
i feel like i could walk to see him
and run away.
i feel like im always trying to be
someone im not.

(i feel like i dont know who i am.)

i feel like a broken shell that keeps getting washed away
but always comes back
(even more broken)

i feel like these words do not make sense
that i'll never make it

so i feel like im going to stop.

feeling the cold air rush against
my exposed shoulders
from the window.
my hollowed eyes straining
for the white screen in front of me
mindlessly typing
different and stupid
combinations of 26 unique letters.
my legs are hot underneath my thick comforter,
my spine bending from an uncomfortable position.
wishing i didn't say goodnight to you.
why do i say goodnight?

Keep grasping that little
piece of grass called hope.
Keep staring into your heart
and repeat why you're worth it.
**** all of the ghosts and demons
haunting your mind with
the little things
that matter.

It gets better.

Weekends
are for feeling lonely,
anxious,
and depressed.
I feel the longing for fun,
but yet I stay still
inside.
This is where I belong,
with the demons inside my head;
Forcing me to become something
I'll never achieve.