Sad isn’t pretty.
Sorrow is beauty
And depression has its allure.
Grief is engaging.
I am not in love with the idea of sad
But I believe there is a morbid
Beauty that some moths
Emerge from their cocoons
With no mouth.
Like the girl you see,
“improving herself”
Digging herself a deeper hole.
Sad is boring,
Misery is enchanting.

*(r.e.)

We romanticize our sadness
To share it with the world
Let others know we understand
Or maybe get a little pity
Because what’s wrong with
A little fake love every now
And then?

*(r.e.)

I was taught not to let a boy see the stains left on my heart by another boy but ******* how could I not, you were so inviting and helpful and I had to show you and you never disappointed me. You made these scars fade. Sure I got new scars, but they were the good ones. The kind that you look back on, smirk, and think that you wouldn't want any marks like this from any other boy. You make my soul and the scars look like perfection and I know it's wrong to romanticize pain, but god, how could I not find beauty in everything you do?

Oakes-photo, hypocrisy and flagrant mirky plateau. Brimming celestial warrants overcrowding public housing systems. North-South lights, sell costly iPhone Apps; and then there are Social Societies of non-verbal delight. Password protected non-profitable and over-costly educations of no reward or biblical synonyms. Catastrophizing hash-tag dot.com. Weary party going poster children with glowing anemone guts, fruity looped cantlings, ravenous scattered supper clubbed coughing up ******* on their strange and central affairs unit. Overcome the candisation and sugary affairs of any of the ***** and pops that erstwhile matter less and less. We are speaking of nomenclatures that don't arise. Promises and by which confession aloof romanticizes every Tom dicking Mary that carries the theory of sustainable energy, prussian blue, and irregular browsing.

You said,
"It's hard to feel this much from so far away."
Hard as a ******* wall of concrete.
What if it's not everything we wanted?
But then again,
What if it is?
I know we like to romanticize.
Your two eyes.
I've never seen them up close,
But when I close my own,
In the darkness, there they are.
When we meet, be cautious
Because I think fireworks might explode from my cranium.
Or perhaps expel straight from my chest.
Red, yellow, blue and white.
Sparkling strings of coiled light shooting outward
Until they erupt into a waterfall of crackled illumination.
Fireworks are dangerous
When handled without care.
But in the right hands
They give birth to a mesmerizing presentation,
Making people stop,
Put life on pause.
Raise their eyes.
Lose themselves.
I think maybe it'll be like that.
When you shine I'll stop and stare.
What if it's not everything we wanted?
But then again,
What if it is?
I recently learned that
"Your faith has got to be greater than your fear."
And I'm trying to believe it.
I want to carve the words into my skin
So I never can forget them.