Wake up and smell the dead roses,
walk with me through the burned fields,
dance with me in pouring rain,
and dodge the falling debris.
But be careful,
for you will realize
that you have been hit by falling debris,
the pouring rain is keeping you on the ground,
you're laying in the empty, burned fields,
with blackened rose petals covering your trembling body.
And when I say you
I mean myself,
for I feel that I am two,
I am me and I am you,
and we lay together on scorched earth
yet we lay apart and drowning in the rain.

Innocence,
where did you go?
I swear just yesterday
I was a little girl in fifth grade
who told herself that she was going to do something
BIG.
But here I am
typing away endlessly,
questioning why things are this way
because I swear
there were two paths my family could have taken
when I was in fifth grade,
and the most difficult one was chosen for us,
and I don't know if I can handle it.

My sister drinks, smokes, and has *** too much,
she's only 19,
she has told me over and over again
"Don't be like me, because I did this,"
and then she proceeds to explain to me,
in very vivid detail,
what she has done.
But I never wanted to hear it.

My other sister, who is now 21.
I was not very close to from sixth grade
to my sophomore year in high school.
I couldn't have told you what her favorite color was,
and she couldn't have told you mine.
But I idolized her.
So the day I learned that she was like my other sister
for her high school career,
was the day I learned how useless pedestals were,
because people always seem to fall even farther,
and the impact hurts everyone even more
than it could be imagined.

My brother, who is 16,
is the one I absolutely adore.
I always try to be there for him
whether I am at his games
or just hanging out with him.
But the days where he doesn't say anything,
scares me.
Because I can't tell if he is okay,
and all I want to know is if someone is okay.

My parents are the best I could ask for,
but I am always under so much stress from them.
I feel like they are putting all of their hopes and dreams on me,
as if I am the only one who will do something with their life,
and that terrifies me,
and depresses me.
The expectations are not something that I wish to go through,
because they aren't my expectations,
they are somebody else's ideals placed over my own.
I also don't like how much work I do for my family,
and how much work I do in school,
only to get nothing in response,
not even a thank you.
I just get told of how I could have done it better.
I know that those sound minor,
but they still cut deeply,
because it feels like no matter how hard I try,
that I will never do anything right.
They also count on me to watch my niece and two nephews
and it has taken them two years
to mention how much I have done for those troubled kids,
whose situation tore me apart.

In sixth grade I became an aunt,
because my half-brother is an idiot
and he got this girl pregnant.
Because we are a nice family, we offered to take in this girl
and try to give her an opportunity in life to do something.
But she just lied and manipulated us into thinking
that she was going to school,
and that she was being a good parent,
and it worked,
But, one day we found out the truth.
My mom saw her out of school
when she was supposed to be there,
and then discovered that her school notebook
had only one page of notes for a month of school.
Then we all saw her hit her child's hands
and then face,
then spanked her child for crying when she needed a diaper change.
Then one day,
my half-brother and his girlfriend
took my niece away.
I was in seventh grade at the time,
already dealing with my own bullies and demons,
but that day is burned into my memory.
It changed my life forever,
because I honestly believed that I would never see my niece again,
I believed that she would be dead in the next year.
I gave my niece a kiss on her forehead,
and I prayed to God that she would be okay.
I ran into my house and I cried.
That was the day that all of my innocence was taken away.
Everything has been my own Hell since then.

And I really miss those days where I looked at the world
as this beautiful and exciting place
and where every new answer fascinated me
to the point where I loved asking
Why?

But now I hate that question,
because there is never really a straight answer anymore.
*To be continued...

Oh no

I was told once
that happiness was around the corner
just go and get it

I crashed into a wall

But they don't get it
I'm not one for speeding
around sharp corners

chasing happiness around the corner

I don't cut corners

straight to death.

Somewhere along the journey
the wind stopped blowing the sails
and we drifted with the current,
stranded out at sea.
We figured the wind would start again,
it always does,
it just needs some time.
As the night enveloped us in darkness
and the stars twinkled coldly up above,
we heard the waves slap against our boat
making unsettling sounds,
and then the wind started again.
But it wasn't very nice wind,
it raged and swirled
and the waves became higher and stronger
rocking our boat
as it groaned and creaked
from the pressure.
People were screaming out,
"Man overboard!"
and then they cried for they lost him
to the dangerous dark waters.
The captain was screaming orders to the crew
who desperately tried to maintain the ship,
passengers ran to their cabins.
But we stayed up top
watching the storm rage.
Then the rain came
and then the hail
thunder cracked over head
and lightning was seen on the horizon.
Destruction.
The wind wouldn't die down
even though we wanted it to.
Something happened and we blacked out.
Something hit us from behind,
debris?
A person?
We couldn't tell,
and we fell.
Now we watch from above the ship
confused.
We couldn't grab anyone
to carry them upward
to safety.
We saw the ship succumb to the storm
as it sank steadily,
while the waters wildly claimed it for their own
we stayed floating above the sea.
The storm moved on
but we didn't know where to go,
and to this day
we are all still lost at sea.

Oh the nostalgia,
Oh memory lane,
a poet's dream that we try to capture
in vain
because the essence of what once was,
is never the same,
as the situation is
and that is beautiful.
Beautifully lame.
Because how can one song
Trigger a lifetime of memories
If the song has no real meaning to you.
But it was the feeling,
The freedom,
The risk,
And that's why it triggers so many thoughts and memories
Pain and happiness,
And if I cry in the middle of class
While writing this,
Then it's okay,
I can feel
I can feel
I can feel.

If I look hard enough
I will find
a void in your pupils
one that does not fill
with the glitter of amusement
or glistens with tears
just a sort of intense nothingness
as you don't even blink
a black hole where your soul
should be

Wind
I have never seen so much wind
Making trees uproot
And branches bow to their superior.
And the rain,
Oh so much rain,
Making rivers burst their banks,
And oceans surpass the dunes.
"Dear God, please keep us safe!"
A woman cries from inside a dark house.
As lightning strikes all around,
With the endless rain,
Flooding the house,
And the wind defacing the outside.
And we all wonder,
Why Mother Nature?
Why?
And a woman cries out again,
As the flood water is rising,
And the wind tears down the trees
The silent cry of
"Dear God help me!"
Could be heard
Through the darkest night.

If I was in a war against sleep
I would be winning
For I have not given in to the peaceful darkness.
...
But this is the one occassion where I wish I would just lose.

Dear God,

All I ask is for one thing,
and I never ask for very much,
but,
you must know the fate,
of my one nephew.
His name is Braylan,
you must know him,
that little bundle of joy,
or my little Bug-a-boo,
that's his favorite nick-name,
that I gave him.
I even came up,
with a little song,
it's so simple,
you must have heard me sing it before.
I've added to it,
but I never got the chance to sing it to him,
it goes like this.

Bug-a-boo,
where are you?
My sleepy, little Bug-a-boo.
Rest your head
on your little bed,
my little baby,
Bug-a-boo.

I would very much like,
to sing it to him,
if I am ever given the opportunity,
before he,
dies.
Those spots on his body,
it's a neurological problem,
hard to believe I know.
And,
it's cancerous.
It can be treated i'm told,
if it's benign,
and never allowed to become malignant,
but it might be too late.
So please God,
please help my nephew,
my Bug-a-boo.
Please let him live,
or, if that isn't possible,
let him go peacefully,
and let his last moments be happy,
not tortured,
or filled with fear,
like when he is with his mother.
Please God,
this is all I ask of you,
and if you can save him,
thank you,
but if you can't,
give me the power to strive forward,
as a grow older,
and let me discover a cure,
let me solve the mystery,
let us all know,
so no child will ever go through this,
again.
One,
is one too many,
to befall this fate.
And I am sure,
there are more.
God,
if you're listening,
please help
my little Bug-a-boo.
Please,
help him now,
because I fear,
if you can't,
then it just might be,
too late.

Sleep is for the weak.
I was constantly told,
by my coaches,
who would catch me,
half dazed on the sidelines.

Then they'd put me in,
tell me to work through it.
You don't need sleep,
you need to work,
and I would run in circles.

I remember running,
back and forth,
trying to keep sight,
of the ball,
with my dreary, sleep-filled eyes.

The game ended,
and I was yelled at by the coach.
Why weren't you awake,
you should have gotten more sleep,
you need to sleep.

What a hypocrite.
Sleep is for the weak,
you pounded that into my head.
So now i'll tell you,
one important thing.

Sleep is for the strong,
and don't you forget it.

There is a possibility,
that my family,
could gain custody,
of the little Bug-A-Boo.
Finally there is a chance,
that we can save this child,
we can help him,
and hopefully,
his skin condition,
isn't cancerous.
If it is,
hopefully it is benign,
and he can be cured.
Hopefully we can gain
custody,
and then I can sing,
my little song to him,
everyday,
until he doesn't need it anymore.
And if this disease,
is malignant,
and he dies young,
then he would at least,
die where he is loved,
and not where he is tortured.
But I have hope,
that he will live,
and if God stands beside us,
then maybe,
just maybe,
he'll pull through,
and live the happy life,
he deserves.

It looks like you're stuck
in a little box of Hell.
Emotional Hell.
The worst kind.
It makes everything else hurt so much more,
everything is just even more real than before.
It's like you're trapped,
in your box,
that's closed tight,
and will be buried,
and you'll be six feet under
with emotional Hell.
You'll wonder to yourself,
how on earth did you get here,
why in the **** world are you in this mess,
and why does everything and everyone hurt so much.
Then your own head doesn't help you,
because then you start to think of everything you've done wrong,
everything you ******* up accidentally or on purpose.
You'll imagine you deserve this ******* Hell
when you don't.
You do not deserve this,
you are better than this.
Kick and scream
fight your way out.
Don't you ever let this trapped feeling win,
don't let it take you to emotional Hell.
Head up and push on,
knock down those strict walls,
you can do it,
you are so much stronger than you think,
you are so much better than you think.
It'll all come to an end,
and your walls will be knocked down,
and you can be you again.
You had to grow up too soon,
you had felt the wrath of uncontrollable emotions.
But you are not alone,
I was there too.
But I got out,
and so can you.

Everyday he used his tools
to work on a fence.
He hammered and sawed
and hoped to God
that he would not cause offense.
To his neighbors,
to his friends,
he just could not let them see
how much he had let his yard
become overrun with weeds.

His heart was too weak
to deal with the stares
of people who said they cared.
So he built a fence
that was ten feet high
around his yard
around his mind.

He hammered in that last nail
to the beat of his pounding heart.
As the clouds gathered overhead
and he realized that it was getting dark.
He pushed himself up hastily
but he tripped over his own feet.
His hands covered in splinters
while he felt his heart shatter
he dropped to the ground
ignoring the clatter
of the wood and the nails
that flew from his hands.
His crippled heart skipped a beat.

The rain started to fall
and he forced himself to his feet.
He sprinted into his home
as his splintered heart hammered
in his shaking chest.
He sat down on his couch
forgetting his tools outside
and the whole mess.

Weeks then months then years passed by
and people who wandered the streets.
Saw a fence that went up one night
start to decay before their very eyes.
...
"What happened to the man who lived in that house?"
"I know the answer."
"You do?"
"*I do."

If you miss me,
              follow the bees.

If you miss me,
              listen to the leaves.

If you miss me,
              I'll be beneath
              the lilac tree.

I'll wait for you;
              come join me.

I'll wait for you;
              come join me.

I'm tired of surviving.

Look at the people who survived on islands
abandoned and lost
Look at people who survived car crashes
mangled and broken
But they survived
They are the definitions of survivors

Look at me I went through some ****
but my life isn't in danger anymore
so why do I feel like I'm just surviving?

I don't want to survive anymore.
I want to live.

Why do some feel the need to steal?
Does it make them happy
knowing that their work,
isn't their own?
How can you sleep at night,
when you've been taking
the hard work of others
and stating it as your own?

Who do you think you are?
Do you even know yourself?
I think not.

Why you may ask,
because you can't even post your own work.
So how could you know who you even are
if you have to steal others work
and claim it as your own.

I think that's sad.
So very sad.
You can always ask for help,
but you should never steal.

No one would look down on you
if you ask for help.
But if you steal,
then i'm sorry for the horrible backlash
that you will receive.

Actually,
i'm not sorry for that backlash.
For what you have done is wrong,
so very wrong.

You could have posted the poem,
and then state that it was someone else's.
Give credit where credit is due.

But you didn't.

And now i'm angry.
I'm so very angry.

I'm writing with a vengeance now
so you better watch out,
whoever you are
stealing poems.
You do not deserve the lovely comments on those poems,
because they are not yours.

So either take down those poems,
or say who originally wrote them.
Because they are not yours,
and they never will be.

It is so selfish to do such a thing.
So selfish to steal.
All you care about is what you want.
Not what the other person feels.

But **** am I furious,
so angry that it is so difficult
to write this.
So very difficult.

For you stole a poem
that one of my friends has written,
and that is unforgivable.

You mess with my friends,
then you're messing with me,
and I am not someone
that you want for an enemy.
So I suggest you stop now
before this entire community
stops you.
...
No one respects a thief.

I would
If I could
But I can't
So I won't
Do it

I would
If I could
And I can
So I will
Do it

"How are you doing?"
those words pierced through my coat
bypassing the buttons that I didn't notice were open
until he spoke them
How I froze words intended to warm
into a pointed intrusion meant to warn
me of my icy exterior
It jabbed at my heart like icicles
pressed into the wound that throbbed and pulsed
He maintained eye contact when he asked
and my eyes were wide
with weariness I couldn't truly hide
but I could disguise
"I'm doing well and you?"
I replied to the man holding a stop-sign
my voice pleasant like springtime
when the wind rustled green-leafed trees
during the early sunrise
and the morning doves sang a sweet melody
covering up my shivering heart
"I'm doing good," he said
and nodded his head
in response to my quiet 'thank you'
he waited until I crossed the small street
eyes at my back, tracking my slow, steady steps
and when I got to the other side
I paused for my crossing guard said one more thing
"I hope you have a good day!"
and I said with a smile too bright, "You too,"
and went on my way
marching through the bright, winter day
hoping that this road would just take me away
Just take me away

Sweet lullabies,
float along the staff lines,
played by instrument,
that can croon sweet tones,
into ones ears.
But yet,
the same instrument
that can sing so softly,
and beautifully,
can be loud and obnoxious,
making the treble clef,
tremble with anger,
or fear.
This one instrument,
is so sweet, mysterious, and haunting,
but at the same time,
its loud, angry, and obnoxious.
It's unique,
just so beautiful,
and rare.
It's my perfect match.

A boy with a bear was sitting in his room.
The bear was missing an eye
and the thread was unraveling
but his mother promised to fix him up
to make him new again.

They were going to his friends house
and his mom told him to leave his bear
But the boy didn't listen.
That bear was his heart and soul.

It was a warm summer day
the sky was bright blue
not a cloud could be seen
and the boy opened his window.

Don't stick your arms out the window.
The boy didn't listen.
Don't stick your bear out the window.
The boy didn't listen.

He wanted his bear to feel the warm air
in the same way he did.
He just wanted the bear
to feel the warm air.

But with one large bump,
the boy lost his grip
and down, down, down it goes
into the street-like abyss

But he didn't say anything.
He didn't know how to speak.
His bear helped him and now he's gone
somewhere on the side of the street.

The boy closed his eyes
shaking his head
and he slowly closed his window.
His mother breathed a sigh of relief.

He stared out the window.
He didn't look back.
He turned a blind eye
to his own unraveling thread.

Where is your bear?
I dropped it
You dropped it?
I dropped it

By the time they went to look,
it was already too dark
and the bear was gone
and so was the boy

I dropped it
I dropped it
*I dropped it

I will never forget the people
on the other side of the screen.
Their names stay in my head
whenever I write.
Because I always think of how
they're a person too.

Two monarchs cross paths
dancing around eachother.
With words so airy,
one should know to be wary
of what will be said next.

"How does your son fair?"
"Fairs as well as yours I presume."
"Yours always had a knack for flair."
"Yours always could wow a room."

Disguised insults spoken.
Each compliment flapped away with wings
that carry the monarch to their next test.
Where they'll see which flowers they like best.
To gather in support of their queens.

"You know what would be tragic?"
"Why do you continue to speak?"
"If a son were to fall to magic,
before his heart could take a beat."

The two monarchs parted ways.
Promises rolling off their tongues
as sweet as the nectar they drank.
But were designed to attack the other's rank.
Their success depends on the other's defeat.

Conversation stalls as the monarchs fly home.
On wings decorated so finely.
Each of their thoughts seem to turn towards their sons
Just caterpillars before their transformations.
Weaving their chrysalis with determination.

Though they're far apart
the monarchs speak the same words

"I fear for you, my son, in this great world,
Our reign can never last for long.
But I wish for you to have your chance
To encapture the world in a trance
With a grace bestowed upon your wings
I wish for you to make others sing.
For I've seen the tragedy of the other king
Just before transformation
I saw a caterpillar die in its chrysalis."

"I saw a caterpillar die in its chrysalis,"

"I saw a caterpillar die..."

"My son, that has made all the difference."

I think to myself,
a great deal of things
that weigh heavily on my mind
I can't seem to express
this feeling I have
and how deep within myself
it resonates
I feel like a small but important part of me
is dying on the inside
it's shriveling into nothingness
I find that i'm not angry
and i'm not scared
i'm just sad
and depressed
and this feeling
circles through my body
unrelenting against my emotional capacity
I passed my breaking point
a long time ago
but the sadness escalates
and spills over
flowing into others
and it spreads like wildfire
it just crushes me
to no end
and I can't cry
believe me i've tried
sometimes all I want
is to cry
but no tears will fall from my eyes
there would only be the strangled gasps
of someone who is sobbing
and i'm tired of it
i'm tired of being sad
but to me
it looks like
I won't stop being sad
and i've been thinking
for a long time now
about death,
and when I go
i'll hate that i'll leave everyone I love
behind
but to me
dying isn't a morbid thought
it's just life
and it must be accepted
as always
and when I go
whether I die young
or old
if I come to a natural end
or a not
life will go on
it's a never ending of cycle
of love and pain
a dangerous cycle
as I see it
there is so much in life to enjoy
and I know this
i'm aware
and I try not to be so absorbed in myself
so I can live
and pull out of this shell
that I have been rebuilding for months
but it's getting even harder to manage
I don't feel in control of myself
and the problems my family and I face
every single day
tears me apart
I miss the days when I was a little kid
yes i'm still young
and i'm techinically still a kid
however I feel older
this situation that i've been put in
forced me to grow up faster
not everyone has nieces and nephews when they're only twelve
and not everyone has to deal
with my irresponsible half brother who is in his twenties
and his girlfriend
who is the mother of these children
and not a good mother at all
she's cruel
just awful to these children
that's the reason one of my nephews lives with us
everything is just barely staying together
held as tight as a single thin thread can hold
and i'm the thread
I don't like the weight
and the tugging
and yanking
of the way everything is going
I feel like one day
i'll just collapse from it all
and the thread will snap
and I will fall to dizzying darkness
while the everything else
just spirals out of control

Colors are swirling in front of my eyes
and took me too long to realize
that those are your eyes staring at mine.
Different colors are mixing together,
the anger and the fear
of being caught...
of being caught in a lie.
But what did you lie about to make me so upset?
I know you lash out when you're afraid of the consequences
am I really that frightening?
But you lied
you lied about who you truly were
you lived a lie that you created
that you wanted others to believe.
The truth wouldn't break me
it's the lies that do.
What is the purpose of these lies?
What are you doing?
What are you?
What?
What...

I'm manufactured like hand-me-down clothes.
Worn at the seams though I'm not old.
Elastic stretched out,
zipper caught on its own track,
my buttons won't snap.
The threads at my knees tear
revealing scarred skin that won't disappear.

But I can roll the hems,
unlatch the zipper,
replace the buttons.
And truthfully, I like the look of jeans
with rips at the knees
so what if it reveals me?

I wear the clothes of my mother and sisters
what they loved is now mine to claim
for it doesn't quite fit them anymore
and perhaps some seams ripped
but that I can fix so it will fit me.

The clothes I wear may not be new
and hold old hopes that won't come true
but it holds old love too.

Hush little baby,
don't say a word
cause mama is crying
and there's no mocking bird

and we know the mockingbird won't return,
so mama's gonna say go back to sleep, her tone stern.

Wait, where is that shiny ring mama likes?
Mama says she told it to take a hike.

She stepped on the shiny, jagged objects at last,
but mama says it's just the broken looking glass.

Didn't papa say he'll buy you a billy goat?
But mama says ¨not another word out of your throat.¨

How about that bull and cart you were promised?
Mama said papa was never honest.

When will we buy a dog named Rover?
Mama looked at you and said it was all over.

You dreamed of the day you'd have a horse and cart,
so you could leave and mama won't see you depart.

Now your life is lived with a grain of salt,
and mama never said it wasn't your fault.

Hush little baby,
don't say a word
mama loves you very much
but papa won't return.

Say something witty
Don't lose your mind
Whatever you do
Always say that you're fine
Because people can't know
How you feel when the snow
Piles up too high
Where you can't see the sky
Don't say that word
That was all you heard
As people complained
About the sound of the bird
But now that bird is gone
Just as quick as dawn
And in the meadow full of snow
Lay a sleeping fawn
And everybody knows
How that story goes
When the innocent is left
To the hands of its foes
Without their protector
They are open
To all forms of attacks
That they will rope in
And I hate to see
Just how nature can be
Especially when I'm not speaking of
the nature of animals around me

There are clouds in the sky,
they mass together,
just a thick swath of gray,
that blocks the sun.

I'm walking home,
all by myself,
I've been doing that a lot now,
but it's okay.

I feel the wind pick up,
the dead leaves are swirling
all around me,
like some strange tornado.

A tornado of leaves,
how interesting.
If only the wind would pick me up
and carry me off.

Throughout my windy thoughts,
one raindrop fell,
slowly from my eye
down to my chin.

I felt it fall off my chin.
The wind left a cold chill
on the wet path on my cheek;
it stung.

Then the clouds finally broke down on me.
The rain poured, but I didn't rush to leave.
I walked at the same pace
with my face lifted to the sky.

I don't mind
I don't mind
I don't mind

A run down house
filled with garbage and dirt,
and bugs of all sorts
that I didn't know existed,
is where my dream had taken place.
Well, at least I hope it's a dream,
and not reality.
I walked towards that broken, disgusting house
regretting each step
that took me closer
I'm blind to my surroundings
my only focus is that house,
or what is in that house.
The house seems to get bigger
and it looms over me
threatening to crash and smother me
but even with all this danger
and my head telling me to run
I was compelled to move on
to find the purpose of this horrible house,
this awful house.
The wind picked up
and my vision changed
the house changed,
it was still the same house
but this time it was a quaint little house
it sit perfectly in the country setting
and children ran and played
adults were laughing
everyone was happy
and I found myself laughing with them,
As soon as the vision came,
it disappeared,
leaving my frozen
and hesitant.
I no longer wanted to find out what happened to this house.
The walkway was cracked,
the lawn was overgrown
the trees were snapped in two
and darkness was settling in,
the horrible house it was once more
looming over me.
I started to run,
but not away,
much to my dismay
I ran towards that house,
through the dark gaping doorway
right into the garbage filled living room,
dying room more like it.
Everything was dying,
and I watched,
death filled the living room
like a sickness that can not be cured,
it was oppressing,
and once again I felt smothered.
The room swirled before me,
broken tables and chairs flew around the room,
a tornado of broken things
flew towards me,
broken tables and chairs,
sofas and pictures,
hopes and dreams,
souls.
Broken souls stopped this rampaging tornado
and stared at me,
their colorless eyes huge,
begging me to save them.
I started walking,
up now,
up old stairs that creaked ominously under my feet.
Every step I thought I was going to fall through.
I turned down the hall and into a room,
now there was a broken crib
and destroyed toys,
the only things intact
were a teddy bear,
and a child.
The child was sick with the fever of death,
and I had to get him out of here
those broken souls were screaming out of fear,
"Get Out!"
The house was going to fall.
I grabbed the child and the bear,
and I ran.
Down those perilous stairs
out the gaping door way
and I ran with the child in my arms
far away from that horrible house
and those broken souls.
I finally stopped running
when I was in a field of frost bitten flowers.
When did it become winter?
That child was shivering,
he gripped his bear
the strength of that child filled me with some sort of hope.
I wrapped up the child and ran.
Now it was spring,
the child was older now,
he still stayed with me
as we ran through the living forest,
this child's cheeks were bright red with the joy of running.
Spring fever wrapped him in warm, gentle, arms.
Then we ran into Summer,
how I do not know.
But that child was older,
and I was older,
he had blue eyes and blond hair,
and I never noticed until now.
We ran along the beach,
he splashed in the water
Summer fever took him up in her raging warmth.
Then it was fall,
and that child changed once again,
no longer happy
he walked instead, alone a lot,
without me.
His blue eyes seemed to darken,
and he was paling,
anyone could see that Autumn fever caught him in weakening arms,
and though he was beautiful,
he was dying.
Then winter came once more,
and we were back at that house.
That horrible house,
that now was just a pile of rubble,
and broken souls.
That child walked up to the house,
fell to his knees,
and died.
I ran up to him
winter trying to hold me back with cold winds,
all that was left
was his teddy bear.
Winter fever had crushed him in her cold grip,
and killed him.
I hugged the teddy bear.
I woke up,
disoriented by my dream,
my heart felt raw,
the death of a child,
something I never want to be reality,
ever.

She lives her life so thoroughly,
it seeps through her clothes,
her skin,
and into her blood
and all her greatest joys
swim through her veins.

But there is a strange pressure,
a tenderness in her chest
that makes her feel weak,
and people don't seem to realize
that this person who is filled with joy
is bleeding.

I kept a quarter in a drawer next to my bed
for when I made decisions that hurt my head
where each choice came at great cost to my sanity
so I flipped a quarter to cheapen the price to twenty-five cents
and I said it's just common sense keeping innocence
but it's ignorance and guiltlessness that I wanted for me.
When a quarter felt too heavy I moved on to a dime
because it was lighter than its cost and fit my indecisive crime
but I find I tossed it too high and couldn't always catch it
so it clattered to the floor and rolled beneath my dresser
and maybe if I left it there, my decision-making stressor
would disappear like the dime then I could quit
Yet decisions kept on coming and so a nickel would have to do
five-cent choices should be worth less than dimes too
and yet again, I couldn't bear the weight of my choice.
So instead I flipped two pennies, to get my two cents in.
One landed heads, the other tails, and I still have a decision.
I can't keep flipping coins to replace my voice.
My treasure trove of choices worth less than the ones before
because they're all plastic, made so I don't have to endure
the weight of cost so I selfishly kept on flipping
all these coins and kept on wishing they would never land.
Fifty-fifty, leave my choice to chance, take it out of my hand.
If my coins never land, then my decisions cost me nothing.