How dare the world keep turning.
Can't it see we're still mourning?
I am still stood still with shock,
Still shaking,
My heart still racing.
Still so soon, 50 other hearts stopped.
If this world keeps turning, revolving as normal
Then I fear that the sun may set and rise and bring us tomorrow.
A new day. How many hearts will stop?
How many hearts will be stopped?
The world keeps turning without a thought
Of the panicked, the broken, the shaking, the shot.

I wish reality was physical so I could hit it back,
Sucker punch it in the mouth,
Scream in its face.
How dare it take my time away?
How dare it dangle my passions in front of me,
Separate them into paths,
Then say I can only walk one way?
My soul burns too bright for my body.
I have to take out some of the tinder,
But I kinda wish, kinda want to
Just burn up.
It'd be easier than playing duck-duck-goose with my passions
Chasing one around and around when I might not even catch it
And passing the others up completely.
I want to do everything.
I want to inhale theatre and exhale animation.
I want to rise with writing and sleep with song.
I am struggling, I don't know if it's possible
To just choose one.

I don't know how to claw my way out of this one
This well feels deeper than those of the past
And it still somehow overflows
So I can't get a breath of air and I can't find purchase on the cold stone walls
I don't see how there could be any light at the end of this tunnel
When I stare up all I see is the thick black ink which drowns me
I have trouble keeping my eyes open, keeping my legs kicking
I am not a great swimmer but it is still much harder to tread this darkness than it has ever been to tread water
And I honestly don't think I'll survive this summer
There's not much oxygen left in these weak lungs
And everything seems so dark
And I am
So
Tired

We used to live down each other's throats, in each other's homes and now I'm lucky if we speak monthly and it hurts somewhere deep inside me
We used to talk about cartoons and books and nothing at all while we'd listen to music on your bedroom floor but now it seems you're caught up in more taboo entertainments and I'm caught up in my tailspin
I think the only thing that hasn't changed is the love for cartoons but we have kept none of the childhood spirit they used to bring, inspiring us to stay up all night hush-hush talking through your DS
I'm afraid that we don't quite fit together anymore, puzzle pieces bent at different spots so we don't quite work
I never expected to be out of place in your company and I'm so scared to talk to you and risk realizing that when they say Everything Goes Away they mean EVERYTHING and 7-year friends are no exception
I'm used to everything falling away when it's not ripped up from the roots but I guess I'd convinced myself we were two branches on the same trunk so the roots didn't matter
But here we are, old friend, here we are.

Softly I offer my heart to you
And bare my throat and open wounds.
Something foolish inside me hopes you pocket it,
Hopes you memorize every **** in my skin.
Something selfish inside me
Hopes you hold me closer, closer
So I can bury myself in you and call this home.
Pleadingly I press my heart into your palms
And you hold it, don't dare to harm it
But I think if I get closer
I can see something glassy in your eyes
And i think, maybe
You're not really looking.

I hate the sense of obligation I have when I write.
I could care less if there's a pattern or a rhyme.
I do not write to write poetry.
Poetry is a form of delivery, a more delicate voice for the battlecry inside of me,
A way to release my chaotic thoughts.
I hate wanting to make sense to you
But I want to make sense to you
So maybe somewhere someone will read my heart and know they are reading my heart.
My brain and heart clash, clatter,
Chaos in a cluster intangible, so I instead try to make it legible
Because I cannot physically fight my demons or the thick inks that weigh down my veins.
I hate this,
I hate every word coming out of me right now,
Artificial and laminated,
Served to You, my Reader,
Seasoned to what I hope is your liking:
Far too mild.
I wish I could scream through words,
I wish I could finally write something with enough honesty and emotion that I feel like it was worth writing.
After every sentence I want to exit this page,
Close this book,
Slash big ****** red "X"s on everything in this artificial life.
I will not end this gracefully.
My thoughts are not graceful.
Dear inner artistry: go **** yourself.

The heavy, dark Lonely sinks into my skin again,
As it always does this time of night.
I don't even try to sleep, I know my thoughts will win the fight.
I'm always kept awake by my overactive mind,
And the ache in my chest gets stronger with the time.
The Lonely manifests in physical pain,
Double-teaming my body and my brain.
I want to spill my ink,
I don't want to rhyme,
I want to break my ukulele's bridge and burn every page of my sketchbooks,
Because no matter how I try to show people my heart
They shrug me aside—
And I know I'm not wondrous at art,
But I could write you a symphony if you'd just let me
Lay my head against your chest and listen to your heart beat.
I'd sing for you forever, at that tempo, about that safety.
I swear to god I'd worship you if you could somehow **** my Lonely.