two months left in the year
elections
holidays
Christmas is near
I ain't gon front
I'm a little afraid for where my country is going
off a pier
destruction is near
arguing all I hear
it's so hard to be a teenager these days
no
a girl
no
a woman
but not quite
women have rights
no, not right
never right
but rights
enough to keep them quiet
quiet
two months left in the year
so much that I hear
information
mis information
this information
right
wrong
left
right
up
down
side to side
and over again
there are two months left in the year
be glad if by January I haven't jumped off a pier

When male penguins like a female penguin they scower the entire beach looking for the perfect pebble and present it to her like a proposal.
I want a rock
A pebble
So small but big enough to fill the entirety of my heart.
My heart.
I'm told that one person cannot be your missing peice
I'm not sure if i'm in love with the pebble, but maybe the idea of someone giving it to me.
I'm not in love with the Penguin, but the idea of what he represents.
Someone to walk with me through thick and thin and breathe my air.
Someone to sit next to me during a scary movie.
Someone to hold my hand under the table and giggle about a joke that no one understands but us
Someone to give me a pebble
But pebbles don't fill that void
that hole
Pebbles can only do so much
I can collect pebbles like Pokémon cards, but I will never fill that hole
Because a pebble can't be all of you
No person
No rock
Nothing but god alone can fill the void that lingers in my soul
But yet I continue to dig and dig and dig and dig
for the pebble that's perfect for me
But a pebble isn't what I need

I write this a requiem for me
An act of remembrance for the girl I used to be
A view out of the rose colored glasses of which I used to see
Oh little baby me
You have a gift, no one can see
You breathe in air, no one else breathes
You have a halo that rises above me
The beam of happiness that bounces off your smile goes on for a mile.
Not to mention your style
Your existence makes life worthwhile
You are the lily of the nile
You are only perfection in my eyes
You baby girl are all that is good in this world
You are a shining pearl
Your goodness may have faded on me.
But for all I can see you are as perfect as can be.
You, you are no longer me
You are better than I will ever be
So here I write a requiem
I write this for me
Not the me that I am, but the me i used to be
The one that sees more than I see.
I write this for me.

I have always run a mile a minute.
My words moving faster than I could ever run.

Thought through or not words flow out of my mouth like water

I haven't been able to shut up for the last 15 years.

The grass, the caterpillars, tired of my talking.

The grasses are screaming.

The cats, the lizards, crawling away swiftly.

The caterpillars turned to butterflies in order to fly away from me.

And here's silence.

I've never heard silence not even in the depths of my mind.

I've always wondered what it's like but
It's a sword in a stone that I will never be able to touch.

I have always run a mile a minute.

My words are like a fire with every sentence oil is doused upon the flame.
I crave the extinguish of silence

And yet in the dark of mind when all of the crows have flown away
Silence is just an idea not yet formed

I think perhaps that I am too sensitive
The snowflake
The idea that my generation is soft and can't handle conflict might be true, because because in my eyes, all conflict is evil,
maybe I am stirring up conflict,
maybe I am the one whole holding the lighter and lighter fluid at the bridges that I burn.
Maybe I'm too sensitive.
A snowflake in a pool of lava,
I am just begging to burn in flames. Perhaps I just am unable to live a life without conflict.
Maybe I'm just messy.
Maybe I'm too sensitive
offended by everyones words
hurt by every pin
Maybe I'm too sensitive

You made me a poet
You made my pencil and paper meet
My words hit paper
All I am is a product of what you have made me to be
You made me a poet

I am trying to find solace in silence
Comfort in quiet
Safety in my slumber
As seasons of friendship end I struggle with the idea silence
Notifications on but my phone doesn't buzz
Work, school, work, school, study, practice study.
No need for texts if you don't have time
Breathe
Sit and breathe
Breathe and sit
I have never quite sat in silence
Always has there been noise
The noise in my head
The noise of my life
For one of the first times in my life in sit comfortably in silence

Everytime I look in the mirror I smile
Not because I think im pretty
But because i don't want the mirror girl to be sad
Because to me she is separate
I don't want that girl to see me cry
Everytime I look in the mirror I smile
Not because I'm happy
but because she's pretty
Even if I am ugly
Inside out and all over
That girl will always be pretty
Everytime I look in the mirror I smile
Because that girl is me
She deserves to be pretty
She deserves to be happy
Inside out
And all over

I wanna be more than a warm body someone you want to see,
not see,
look into my eyes and see
See me
more than what you ever could be
contain so much pain suffering sorrow, an anguish,
but it is so beautiful.
So wonderful
so full of happiness and smiles and good things and bad.
I want to be more than a warm body.
I want you to mean something to me
Someone I mean
someone I see
Someone I breathe
Someone I need
I wanna be more than a warm body to you

I don't remember a time where I didn't write.

I've always written down everything that's made me upset since I learned how to spell sad

S.A.D.

A feeling I know all too well

I can't quite say i'm sad all the time, but sad lingers

It sits in the back of my head, begging for me to use the steak knife at the dinner table to turn my arms into lined paper.

I've always been a writer

Papers and pen

A shield and a sword

My words sting like daggers, but they are shielded and locked between the confounds of composition books

The thoughts usually hidden for the sakes of others flow freely between these gaps and lines.

I've always been a writer

I'm told I never stop talking

But the words I speak are carefully chosen

What's written, What lies within that spiral notebook those are my real words

I've always been a writer.