I found comfort
In a house on fire
With flaming curtains wrapped around my neck

6 figures versus 5
But no one noticed a difference
The falling leaves burned on the grounds
And the tree branches stabbed the earth

Hear I am in the third degree
With a home turned to ashes
Invisible to everyone
But me
-S.M

I miss you like the wind does the leaves
But when spring comes, once again they will meet

You have become my nostalgia
Standing in the brink of my memory lane
Leaving behind clouds of tension
As my passion grew younger for you

If the time rewinds itself,
I would close my eyes and embrace you
Again, to leave me with scars
That won't heal soon

The first memory of smiles and giggles
Is the worst thing that hurts me more
I hate to admit to being addicted
To your curves and bountiful heart

I see him every single day. The longing inside of me aches for his acknowledgement. His knowing of my existence.But truly I should hate him. He is a monster after all.  I hide in the shadows of halls and argue with myself. There are people at my school who cannot let others joy pass through their sights. It’s as if their desire is to make everyone else weak so therefore they can maintain their power. But what is power that is taken from negativity? I will never know so therefore I will never speak up. I can’t speak up. No one will ever hear me or see me. No one even notices me unless I fall and cry or break when the teacher calls on me. I’m their daily amusement. My hands are always clenched in agony and my heart is always being ripped into shreds from vain conquests. Despite the tear in my throat my heart beats for the ailing souls of the forgotten. It knows what the others don’t see and hear. Despite my agonizing breathes of air I’m still alive today. How I can still walk with my breaking bones and how I can still see through the foggy lenses society has bestowed upon me is truly beyond me.

I cannot allow myself to speak. Speaking takes energy. I don’t have enough energy to simply express my being and then have my voice heard. My voice is quiet and raspy with edges of cut mirrors and thorny rose bushes. I used to be a lemon tree sweet and sour but golden and sunny as most people expected from me and came to realize and to be simply put that was their recognition. But then the hazy storms of dread pricked my fragile fingers and brought forth blood of ruins. I was ruined. But at first they didn’t care. They wanted to see me for the way they knew me and not the way I had became. How was it fair that she got the recognition from her ex and not I? Not everyone knows of my full story simply because of the sacred secrecy I have been cursed with. He has banished all thoughts of fantasy and left me as a beggar for mercy.

Death tempts me with a chance to finally fall asleep...


And I chose to decline.
O' the regret.