"It’s the things we love most, that destroy us."**
Is the quote that keeps resonating in my head.
I heard it in last night's movie
And it fills me up with dread.

I can say it's true
Since I've experienced it once or twice.
It has frozen my heart solid
What moves through my veins now is ice.

Have you noticed how fake life is?
Just like this poem, its not really a poem,
Its just my thoughts and feelings,
Grouped in to 4 lines.

But might as well carry on,
Mention how fake you are,
Your make up,
Your thoughts and feelings.

How am I supposed to know,
How you feel,
What do you want,
Do you even want me?

Worst of all, it hurts me,
It makes me feel like I'm not me,
I want to be with you,
That makes me feel like something isn't right,
I feel fake.

I walked into class
The students all turned their heads
Do they smell my ****?

I feel a shiver run through me
As her fingers touch my neck
And she bites my lip
While she tells me she loves me

I could sprout wings and fly
Every time she speaks my name
Her enticing words rolling off her tongue
And composing a symphony in my ears

When she walks,
I'm fascinated with how she sways her hips
And how she turns back to look at me and licks her lips
And my heart starts beating in anticipation

Her skin is soft,
Like I'm running my rough hands across flower petals
And when I kiss her neck,
I hear her breathe in gold and exhale diamonds
While she pulls my hair
Just the way I like it

There's no place I'd rather be

Do you know what it feels like?
To imagine killing people, and then feel slightly guilty after thinking so
Do you know what it feels like?
To hurt yourself feeling you deserve it, and afterwards you regret it
Do you know what it feels like?
To be a lesser being, to not even matter that the world doesn't hear you screaming
Do you know what it feels like?
To want to rip your own heart out, to stop the feeling, to stop the pain, to rid the burden, and the heavy rain
Do you know what it feels like?
**To be on the outside of every single thing

Why don't people write poetry
when they are happy?
Because you don't need to digest happiness,
you just let it wash over you.

What would happen if, instead,
we digested
happiness through words
and poured struggle and sorrow
onto our heads
so it dripped down our chins
and leaked in our minds
and slid down our shoulders
and backs
and legs
and made a puddle of tears at our feet?

Our books would be filled with joy
that generations could read
for years to come.
And they wouldn't think us a boring lot,
but find smiles
in our words,
and fondness
in our memories.
So the ground would be covered sadness...
it would water the plants,
and strengthen our souls,
and nourish our minds,
and that wouldn't be so bad
would it?

Because when it's all said and done...
you can step out of a puddle.
But if a pen is a sword
and the words are it's ink
I'd much prefer those words
to be loved.