The streets are fresh
with the withering flesh
of sensuous conversation.
Tiny bits of floating fragments,
plump and succulent,
pass stranger’s ears,
plain to hear
even though I fear
few could ever take them in.
This is the reality in which
I drown just to swim,
a sea of unclear sounds
and half *** observations
made to clutter my notebook.

Stares burn through me
Conversations stop
Whispers spread
Rumors start

Sitting in the back of the room
Nails gripping into my skin
I want to scream
It flashes back

Can I go to the bathroom
Check under the stalls
Slip up cry, go away
Clean makeup

Walk into the room and sit down
People stop and stare
Class starts again
I don’t

Watching the clock high on the wall
Waiting for the hand to move
Grabbing books
Running

They are all talking about you
You need to come back
I will be there for you
It will be better

I'm forced to come back by others
Cold cuts through me
I can’t breath
I see them

I can suddenly breath
I smile back at them
Others look
Oh no

Stares burn through me
Conversations stop
Whispers spread
Rumors start

It will all go away soon sweetie
They will stop talking
Just trust me
Please

Walking the halls once again, again for them  
The same cold rips through me
It is not better
Not at all

Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice messaging system. The person you thought you wanted is not available. At the tone, please record your message. When you’ve finished recording you may hang up or press one for more options.

But now we can communicate.
I am not sure what cause this sort of block.
Under normal circumstances I suppose it's human.
To access so much of ourselves mentally.
Yet physically remain mute.
An attempt to be funny. Charismatic.
To yearn the manifestation of being represented such as a memory.
For some it's easy. It becomes culture.
Ignoring this association of fear.
Although slight. We begin to judge ourselves.
In fight beyond a couple of seconds that leads to bliss.
The things that have yet developed.
The possibility that things may not.
But definitely something is there. Reflected from the light of eyes.
Self doubt in light of holding back.
Yet we've evolved.
We've evolved into a splitting image of what we adorn.
The critique of what eyes see & what ears have heard.
We've thought in different ways of what binds.
Now we communicate.
To better service our needs, our wants.
We've binged them all.
Knowing all of our favorite parts, to speak hesitantly about the bad.
We recite them only in private.
Ignoring the kick backs and *** lucks that begin with pleasure.
It begins with the closed culture of what feels foreign
to no longer recite in mental.
Now we communicate

I want to be friends with everyone.
Is that selfish of me?

Why yes, it certainly is.
You're a very selfish little girl.

I want everyone to like me.
Is that wrong of me?

It's human nature to want to be liked.
However, wanting everyone to like you is quite selfish.

I want everyone to be happy.
Is that bad?

For everyone to be happy, you'd have to remove their egos.
Do you really want to mess with everyone so they become lifeless?

No! Of course not.
I just want to be good.

You want friends.
You want to be cared about.

I do.
Is that so wrong of me to want?

Certainly.
You're an extremely selfish girl.

But, people say they like me.
Is that a problem?

It feels good, doesn't it?
You feel warm and tingly.

I want more friends.
I want to be wanted.

It's unfortunate none of your friends actually cherish you.
You know that, yes?

Shut up.
Be quiet.

You're selfish.
You only think of yourself.

That's not true!
Shut up!

You only want to feel good.
You don't care about anyone else.

PLEASE BE QUIET.
I DON'T WANT THIS NOISE.

*Why?
Aren't you the one saying these things, anyway?

Even my poems
do not speak eloquence
or a personal soliloquy--
my words lack the lush
and brazen must
that all else seem to speak.

To hold a pearl
is something to behold
a precious mistake
bore into beauty.

I speak muzzled
ideas that are simply
monologues; meant
to only hinge
ideas together.

They do not
let you understand me,
but give a soft or bleak
ensemble of demenor
of someone I've been trying to find.

And there began our oral history.
Removed from text, living and breathing.
Passed back and forth between lips.
I myself a promise, her oath.
The anxious lump that hesitates in the back of the throat.
The inner most of courage exchanged in deep sigh.
Finding it impossible to hold on to my own words.
I hold on to hers, and it is within this freedom am I truly free.
Without confines to anything, other than ourself.
That we find influence from events current and past. 
Well dressed in each others lips.
We both fold the page.
In exception to our next breath

Rejection is harsh.
I've gone through it myself,
But it's a fact of life.
Part of life is accepting
The fact that eligible person
That you might like
May not reciprocate the love.
It happens.
Be strong.

we’ll go days without speaking,
a blanket of awkward silences wrapped so tightly around us that we won’t have any room to move.

then you’ll text me.
i’ll reply.
tell you how greatly i’ve missed you, and that everything is okay now.

we’ll talk.

i’ll forbid myself from falling for you again, but when had i ever really listened to my own warnings?

once i’ll start getting pulled in again,

you’ll start to pull away.