A Rose by any other name is said to still retain its scent:
A sweet perfume that fills the room to all of our content.
And though this little musing contains poetic form,
When truth is told, I am not sold, for I know there to be thorns.
And if known instead for these pricking fiends
--and not its aromatic petals--
Then perhaps the rose would not be love's flowered vessel.
And the fragrant sweetness we attribute to its structure
Would cease to be a welcomed whiff and the Rose would lose its luster.

You think                                        the clothes that I wear define who I am?
You think                                        that all I amount to is a simple word - emo, goth, scene
You think                                        that there is something wrong with not being okay?

I think                                              that you do not understand
                                                         what it is like
                                                         to have your whole entire existence
                                                         on this earth
                                                         defined
                                                         by one
                                                         word

sticks and stones may break my bones but
names with make me cry

sticks and stones will produce broken bones that may show up on x-rays but
names will show up on my arms and hips

sticks and stones may be thrown but
names are shot out

sticks and stones may be seen but
names will stay in my mind

sticks and stones may bounce off but
names will tie themselves around my neck

sticks and stones may bruise my skin but
names will make me die inside

where do you go when you lay your head to rest;
upon the laurels in the canopy of breath,
or to wildwood thickets and entangled pure excrement of excite;
your supine tenderness blurs the lines of tremendousness
into the minds' concupiscent forlorn worlds,
Worlds for new Words, and tinders beautiful blues while
the light's hum their tremulous cries, and the majesty of woman
reigns hero and heroine, mused and amused, in the qu'ues of real crimes

what all makes us feel so alive

I saw the Earth once, and fell in love.
I wanted to be named dirt.
You laughed, called me mud,
But I love all things that hold up the sky
and You forgot that one is part of the other
and that I am part of everything.
I remain,
                both dirt and sky
You
       disappear with no name.

What shall I call you?
Should I call you my friend? Despite my heavy weight you still catch me every time.
Should I call you my enemy? I do hate you. I hate that I can never hate you.
Should I call you my sibling? Sounds incestuous.
Should I call you my lover? I don't wish to only have you in between my bed sheets at three in the morning.
Should I call you my partner? Let's hold hands and use the buddy-buddy system forever.
Should I call you mine? Yet all I want to be is yours.
Should I call you by your own name? It's the sweetest thing that has ever left my lips.

Not the faded echoes of voices crying out
Names will never hurt me

Of course
They did

She,
Why nobody helped **her?
She helped everyone that she knew that needed help,
So why didn't anyone help her?
She was so happy,
With her beautiful and honest smiles,
With her deep and sincere feelings.
She was a beautiful person.
She was,
She's not anymore.
For one simple reason,
She didn't know how to help herself.