Neon is rare on earth,
hard to find.
But I bet it’s harder to find
any second of the day
where your warm,
monotone voice,
reading an old picture book,
doesn’t echo through my ears.

Did you know that
after adding eight thousand volts
of excitement to helium,
it glows?
Yet my own face
lights up by counting down
the slowly melting
seconds,
minutes,
hours
and days
of excitement, leading up to your arrival.

Your own engraved dog tags,
silver and shiny,
metal magnesium,
hang from neck
like a personal reminder
that you’re not too far away.

Arsenic is nicknamed Poison of Kings
because it had been used to numb
and **** royal family members.
Although no poison in the world
can numb the tingling sensation,
that reaches to my toes,
as your camouflage boots
descend from the plane.


At this point
the only thing that separates us
is the carbon dioxide in our breathe
and the oxygen in the thick,
humid, Texas air.

So when I see your face
the tears will rush out
like water out of a faucet,
simply because
there is no scientific equation
to explain how slow
these thirteen months
have passed.

I believe if you fake a smile for long enough,
sooner or later even you will begin to believe it.
I believe in smiling for everyone else
and occasionally sacrificing your own emotions.
We have too many emotions,
yet who would we be without them?
Simply people floating in and out
of a dreamless sleep,
no gravity holding us down.
What if I told you
I didn’t believe in gravity,
because I don’t believe
there is a force holding us down,
but ourselves instead.
Ourselves.
What a difficult concept for some,
yet for others
it’s the only thing they think about—
themselves.
I think about the future of my friends,
where will we all end up?
Who will be that
one in four statistic
with a drug addiction,
which of us will be the
one in eight
with a cruel diagnosis of breast cancer?
Others of us will help them,
help those with sickness,
help those innocent children with disabilities.
But in my mind there is
no such thing as a disability, just a difference.
I’m different than some people
because I only drink tea to feel
the deep contrast
between the melting of the cold honey
fall
and
mix
into the steaming, boiling water.
I love the contrast between the rough,
sandy shore, and the soft,
flowing waves.
I adore the fact that wherever you go
there will always be another ocean,
a different shade of a glossy blue
or sea foam green.
I would like to think if you looked
long and hard enough,
you could find every color imagined
in a butterfly.
As a child,
the feeling of butterfly’s wings,
grazing your skin,
is a sort of tickling sensation,
one that makes you giggle with delight.
But this is the age
where we still believe in the beautiful princess
with the long blonde hair,
and the handsome prince on his white horse.
Of course the only ending
we ever knew
was the courageous prince
valiantly defeating the monster.
At that age we are too young,
too filled with light,
to believe the real monster is what’s in our own heads.

The days may feel slow
but I swear time passes so fast.
So this is me, telling you,
take advantage of the time you have.

Time is a complicated scenario
that cannot be described in any amount
of colorful adjectives.

Time is the dreams at your fingertips
and the bittersweet opportunities you can taste
at the tip of your tongue.

Time is the walk to the end of the shaky pier,
as the fluorescent red and pink sunset
fades to dusk.

Time is the moth that hopelessly follows the light.

It’s the rejected and the abandoned.

Time is the experience
behind a young soldiers
aging eyes.

Time is the constant reminder
that you will see someone take their last breath,
but you will never experience the last wave
climb upon the shore.

So don’t wait for the good
that’s coming tomorrow,
because what if tomorrow
never comes?

Time is limited,
now is infinite.

Trying so hard to go unseen,
like the chilling wind
which fills the air,
but still creates goosebumps up my spine.
Coming and going
like the soft ocean waves,
always leaving a trail
of sweet destruction behind.
Leading me in the right direction,
like the mysterious
but prominent footprints
in the sand.
Parts of you I take with me
everywhere I go,
like the soggy sand left in my shoes,
and the coconut lotion scent
on my pale skin.

16.**
What a small weight for the most important gas,
that is keeping us alive.
I was 16 when I realized that my mom
had forever been my biggest supporter.
I was 16 and I was still holding my fingers crossed behind my back,
hoping that Santa was real.

I'm the hidden meaning behind good reasons
that have paved the way toward bad choices.
For I have realized, sitting silently in the corner,
that we are all forced to realize our
own self destruction.

Like the building and the wrecking ball,
of which I am often both.

I am your overspoken words and unsaid thoughts.

I am not the beautiful bare trees in the winter,
but instead I am your poisonous dinner.

I am the passion behind tears
and the emotion behind screams.

I am the thoughts that keep you up at night,
and your cold, bare feet.

I resemble a constant string of avoidance and indecisiveness.

I am your dewy eyes and groggy voice at 7:30 in the morning.

I am nothing but a blinking statue.

I am 16 years worth of unanswered questions.

Yet in 16 years will all I be is
another 16 years older?

I am the epitome of drowning without water,
and not to spoil the ending for you,
but I still have 16 years worth of faith,
that everything will be okay.

The butterflies quickly manifest into pain,
and empty tears had no place to go
other than a soggy pillow case.
No should to cry on,
no safe place to fall.
Just a pit in your stomach,
followed by crumbling butterflies,
shot down before they even began
to fly.

Poems are not always about sadness
or the heavy weight of the world.
Poems aren't always about the careless boy,
who broke a young girl's heart
that cold, snowy day.
So I refuse to fill anymore
lines and pages,
with the outline of your name.
I will not waste another
journal page,
on the waves of sadness
you pushed my way.
So I graze my pencil
over the light blue lines,
and try to write about the moon.
How it follows me as I gaze out my window,
but then I remember,
it follows you, too.

Heartbreak is
the words
we left unspoken,
lingering between our lips
and left in an
abandoned corner,
like the always forgotten --
forever awkward,
transition between
winter and spring.
It’s harsher than
the crisp,
frozen air,
whipping against numb,
crimson cheeks.
But it leaves you
paralyzed,
filled with sleepless nights
accompanied by
the ceaseless rain
down your face,
embedding your daily routine
with “what if’s,”
damp tissues,
and *“why.”

There’s nothing better than that old book smell,
or that new book smell.

There’s nothing better than that shadowy corner filled with nothing but your own thoughts,
or the dim lighting covering only your book.

Each word I read is another footstep towards figuring out everything.

Each page I turn is me never wanting everything to end.

And you?
You’re the novel.