Love hard, my friends. Love noticeably.


Love does not deserve to be shoved under the rug, to be disguised, or to be quieted. Love does not mean conforming to the idea that genuine affection is “sappy,” “cheesy,” or “cringeworthy”; instead-- love loudly.


The world wants to tell you that relationships are to be silenced. That posting multiple photographs of each other is tacky, uncomfortable, and something to make fun of. That devoting time with your favorite human being is disgusting, overbearing-- especially when you are young and the future does not exist in your hands.


Too bad, future. And how unfortunate, world. Because at the end of the day, the world does not own love. You do. It is yours to have, to keep, to share, and to do whatever it takes to hold onto it. It is mine.


When you find love, shout it from the rooftops and frame a million photographs. Post selfies of the two of you smiling wide and unwavering. Wear its colors on your face and shamelessly declare it to the whole universe and beyond: You are in love. You are alive.
And likewise, this is my philosophy: Love intentionally, fiercely, tirelessly.


Love so hard it makes people dizzy. Take it as a compliment. In an exhausted world that spins with violence, hatred, and monstrosity-- praise its joys. Snap those pictures.Tell your friends. Scrapbook it, publish it, make art out of it. Laugh about it, display it, live it. Put an end to the grotesque concept that something so beautiful, perhaps life’s most magnificent, should be sheltered. Let it grow.


This is a declaration. I am boisterously in love. There is no quiet here.
One day, you will find someone or something that your heart will never be able to shut up about. And that’s okay. Let it scream.

See Moe with a cup of joe,
***** hair, he's old.
There's his toes through his
socks, basically bone.
The rains made his
calling card runny.
He says he wouldn't have it if
he got his car running.

His excuses are pitiful,
he's sticking anticubitals,
Planning a funeral
But he'll wake up per usual
With a cop bop of the
Top of his head.
Wipe the sleep, find a corner
Shake his hand for some bread.
The coins don't fill up in
Des Moines though.

His kinfolk don't recognize
Him anymore-
Ain't that something?
Used to break bread
But took off running.
Didn't even look back when
They heard that he was bumming.

Moe can't get out of this hole.
Chasing charlie really took its toll.
Now he's the saddest thing on Euclid
And it's stupid.
Went and fought for freedom just
To come home and lose it.

The poor man, can't even afford
A storage can.
Old school hobo
Played war with his hands.
Now we don't even give a ****.
Now he's asking around for a bullet
He can swallow.
This what happens when your soul goes hollow.
What fills him rage is he lied about his age.
Woulda been a different story if
This fib wasn't played

Depression is a void, an empty ocean.
I dont want to go there, but she tells me to come anyways and I obediently follow.
Away from the hills and through the city, she reintroduces me to my two old friends,
Grief and Pity.
It's been a while, though they do not ask me how I've been. Its always been all about them.
I hate her for taking me here, but i have no choice, she knows the way because we've been there together before.
She knows how to navigate the steep cliffs, lies, narrow paths and empty eyes.
How silly of me to think that I could forget, so many times it was where I lived, cried and slept, I could NEVER forget.
I think I'll stay here a while, after all. Shes blocked the exit on the other side of the hall, but i dont mind because this comfort is mine.
Depression and my two old friends, three if you count her. I didnt miss them but I dont feel out of place here, they know me so well.
So I take another drag from my cigarette and I let the void swallow me.

cannot create a thing anymore
threaded from thoughts the spool has been used to the very last,
do you see?
i have became what i hated
gray areas and words faded.
No truths and dead lies on paper,
I read between lines, but
my words have become
nothing but everybodies style.
I wanna reach and contain it,
Remember / obtain it.
Sitting here with the timekeepers
hand on my fingertips,
do you know what i mean?
of course you don't /
something dies / and i cant explain what i need.

He wears his solivagant demeanor like armor; your battle of love will never scratch his silver plated chest, your swords will never pierce the walls inside his ribcage called, "home" Home is where the heart is and he flatlined a long time ago; broken heart syndrome only has only 11 documented cases of death, but something snapped inside that boy that day and I think about how they never mention that you can die on the inside, too.
He says cigarettes are a way to manipulate time, that sand is just sand if you don't know how much you have left in your hourglass, and I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
You could've called us time travelers, we were making best friends with the moon and the stars as we breathed in the promise of calm, an ashen beach lay beneath us. Sand is just sand, after all.
The confessions of an insomniac, the stream of unfiltered emotion laying open, so vulnerable- how terribly sad it looks in the light.

I think you leave little bits of yourself in the trees
I can always see you in them
Your energy is constantly intertwining with nature
And when I'm in nature it's almost like you're there; in the mountains, the trees, the wildflowers.
It's the tsunami waves of missing you
It's the warm sunny days where everything is alive and singing, "He's all around you, just look."
It's that feeling that you get when you're on a mountain looking up at the sky and realizing how small you really are.
You're the boy who plays with the moon, and I'm the girl watching, mesmerized by the way you two move.  
It's that moment when you love nature so much that it crushes you, because you know that you don't belong.
We are built to destroy, and the world deserves so much better than that.
I know I am a disaster, but you make me feel less evil than I've made myself out to be.
I feel more like a tree when I'm with you.

Kaleidoscope love scenes may cause motion sickness, so be careful because I've been slipping silver-lined sentiments into your tea.
Streams of honey pour from my lips, infused with good intentions and "I'd love it if you'd stay," undertones to really sweeten things up- but not too much, I know how sugar makes your head spin.
All of the late nights we've stayed up talking have made the bags under my eyes perfect for brewing and i'm ready to pour myself out to you; that little tea *** short and stout has nothing on my porcelain frame.
Tea cup collarbones made for you to drink from. Our tea party wouldn't be complete without snacks, and I hope soul food is what you're looking for. I don't want small talk, I want the kind of talk that makes me feel small compared to the possibilities. Lets take note from Alice and her glass vile's labeled "drink me", and drink up as we watch the universe expand before our eyes.
All of the love i'm trying to give you could easily be compared to most hallucinogens, because you make my world flip-flop in the most beautiful way.
So, would you care to see what I see? Turn me into a cup of tea, and when i'm done i'll scream and shout words of "I love you," so tip me over and pour me out.

This is Seventeen.
Seventeen is loosely in the beginning of my life. Seventeen is realizing you’ve got a whole lot of life left in front of you. It is accepting that life is a page of writing that has been started, but is nowhere near finished, that a few doors have closed, but many more are still open, that some choices are irrevocable, but some may be changed yet, that there are still many what ifs that need to be figured out.
Seventeen is being caught in the limbo of being seen as an incompetent child and being forced to make adult decisions.
Seventeen is having the freedom to drive anywhere, but having a curfew to stay within.
Seventeen is losing many of the friends you used to have, but keeping the ones who are the closest to you, the ones who understand you the best, the ones you hope to have forever.
Seventeen is being able to stay up late, eating pizza in the park, and play on a playscape trying to be kids for just a little longer.
Seventeen is year long concert series and jamming out to your favorite bands covered in sweat.
Seventeen is dying your hair bright colors, much to your mother’s disparagement, and then changing it a week later.
Seventeen is being forced to choose what you want to do with the rest of your life when your favorite food changes on a daily basis and you have no idea how to function without your mom nagging you.
Seventeen is being excited, scared, sad, angry, hopeful, happy, jealous all at once and trying to deal with it, while still completing your homework on time.

Tell me, my choice was not,
and never will be,
to hurt you.
I only hurt me.
You,
hold my hand.
Me,
gone with the wind, up the cliff, climbing that tree.
Help me.
I die , moonlight burns my bones.
Into ashes.
My soul sprinkled all over my bed sheets, i don't feel like getting up.
Oh, Sir, you have died.
A lot you gave me, do you see?
I am not what you left behind, I am nothing but a mere illusion of what I'm told to be.
I have to ask, will you be scared
of the monster,
life has turned me into?
By life, I mean,
people .
Will you all run away from the beast?
Will you stay until i eat what keeps you alive, and then leave?
Run.