i dont write to become rich or famous
i dont write so that people like me
i dont write for anybody

i write because i love it
i write because i need it
i write for you and me

Through thick or thin,
I don’t want to be ruin.
Friendship we had,
I’ll better be glad.
We see each other flaws,
And break our jaws.
Years has passed by in our life,
Don’t ever use that knife.
Something that we decide ourselves,
Don’t hide in the caves.
Leave the past behind,
I’m your friend at hand.
What hurts you,
Shall be blessed thou.
Let’s face the sunshine,
And let it shine.
I’ll be here no matter what,
Don’t be such a brat.
I love you my dearest friend,
Until the end.

-Jane

If you create lyric
you are never a writer
you are a transmitter
of ideas, of feelings
of life

I've always wanted to become a writer. I've known it all along.
Ever since I started making scenarios in my head about possible outcomes, and whenever I acted a bit too dramatic. Everytime I fell to deep over a guy.
I thank everyone who has ever made me feel like killing myself. Thank you to everyone who has made me shed tears until I fell asleep. Thanks for the scars in my heart, in my arms that will probably never heal properly.
I thank you because I made it.
I'm becoming the person I had to become.
I wouldn't have done it without you.

Dear you,
I was never so swell at writing letters
but it seems that everyone is writing love letters these days
to the eyes they see as windows
to hands they see as safety nets
to thoughts from another head that help them make sense of all of it

and I don't think I've ever truly fallen in love before you
which makes a lot of sense since I always adored things that are imaginary
the mystical nature of it all
so I'd escape to the thought of your non-existent existentialism
that helped me feel some sort of cloudy comfort
I love clouds..
and love loves clouds, I mean it lives in number 9
and maybe this letter belongs with number 9
a cloud I haven't jumped to yet
because its a forced chronology
not matter how much I try to transcend space
8 was close, but we wont talk about that
because there's not sense in it
but i've also been told that love is a blissful repetition
of soul elation and heart sensation
and see, I told you
you whimsical daydream of a nonexistent fantasy
I told you that I was no good at love letters
because the best one ever wrote
lives in infamy in red roses and blue violets
it's just a think those lines are such a violent antiquity
but my words will never live up to such a sense of sensitivity
so as to be spend a life of monotony trying to make sense of it you see
I digress
where were we
I'm suppose to say I love you and I see no days without you
because you're my sunshine on a rainy day
but old rhymes and tired lies plague my listless rhymes
i swear im tryin'
you can't take to pleasing a mystery
with coyly placed tries of a tease
I might as well tie off my hopeless pleas
but please, don't write me off like the endless words in this tireless rhyme
because until the time rolls around the corner for my wandering thoughts to take form, you'll live in these hopelessly hopeful tangled letters
to you, the one I haven't met yet

When my friends and I talk about guys
one of my girl says a guy whose tall
another says whose strong
another wants rich
thats kinda guy they wanna be with
my turn,I said a guy who has sense of humor
a guy who can write poems
and I could write poems for
a guy with whom I can laugh & cry
a guy that would be mine.

They ask me,
"What are these holes in your heart, darling?"
I tell them,
"I am a writer and my pen always needs a refill."

Well now I am aware
Of the newest anarchy towards your reasonings
An enterprise of not feeling anything
This practise of not making a sound.

Even the hollowest, little laugh, catapulted up
Through the roof of your mouth, and reflecting
Off the top of your tongue, can still be too much.
In earnest, even if it's an eighth of a sound, its apex
Is too much to drown out, I hear it everywhere that

It throws me towards. Holds me by the throat and it
Knows me now like it wants me to find out but then
Hides itself, like the chime of a bell, ringing off the hem
Of the dress you wore on October 30th of 2012, it is a
Sound that'd I'd never be able mute out, that comes
To me unexpectedly, and it takes the rest of me to keep cool.

Now the inches grow, and the moon men climb inside of
My mouth. I want to yell. Scream! But I can't even shout.
The words inside of my hands write, but the ink has dried out.
I wasn't sure but now I'm sure that the time has come and
That time on the clock is now. Call up the whales, undress for
The moon, I'm making Rice Krispies because the penguin girl

Is coming home soon.