A little bit of nothing can go a long way.

A little bit of quiet remembrance of the lovely past,
or perhaps a little bit of silent, spinning thoughts.

Maybe a little bit of everything that feels like nothing.
Could it be the little bit of music as we paint pictures on the canvas' of our minds?

Let's have a little bit of useless thinking to drown the white noise of our collective consciousnesses.
Indulge me in the little bit of pretty moments.

Perhaps we all need a little bit of nothing with just a touch of everything.

Though I never really knew you before, I knew of you.
The boy that was forbidden to me by a girl I no longer see.
You added me on a social media that I had no idea you had.
You called me cute and we started to talk more and more.
It made me quite curious, and you the same.
You asked me how my day was instead of for pictures.
You told me I was classically beautiful instead of just a normal pretty.
I didn´t know boys like you still existed.
And while you may never see this, I sit here and write to you as if you will.
I´m talking to you right now and you wonder what I´m doing.
I tell you nothing much, but this, this is everything to me right here, at this moment.
You make me feel infamous and I am quite enjoying this new person to talk to.
I thank you Thomas, you´ll never know it, but for the past few days,
I haven´t gone to sleep crying.
It was smiling.
You tell me you hope to see me as soon as this mess is over and I am so excited,    
I´m looking forward to something for the first time in a while.
You inspire me anew and make me feel that the person I use to be doesn´t matter.
I love that more than you´ll ever know.
Oh, look at that!
Another text, and one of you being ever so cute!
You feel the same way, and that is everything.
I am quite taken with you, my new person to talk to.

sorry for not really being active lately, I've just been relaxing and trying not to feel the pressures of thw=e outside world while I drink coffee and watch the office all day.

It’s beautiful. The rhythm. The instruments

blending to construct a uniform of posse-

ssing noises. The voices cascading

   together to create a melody, one

     quite similar to sweet dew on

       flowers in the bright, early

        morning. It fills you until

           you feel the wonde-

             rful notes within

             your very being.

           The tones dance a-

          round you until you

        are nothing but that. T-

      he different feels of each

   individual song are incredible.

They can either make you feel as

if anything is possible, as if there is

no greater sadness than your own,

as if you are the best thing in the w-

orld to someone, as if you are not

  who you are but who you alwa-

   ys wish to be, or as if even th-

     e most substantial disadva-

      ntages can never lift the

       brilliant veil of the warm,

          fuzzy happy you are

                  drunk on.

                   It’s as if

                    in that

                   one mi-

                 niscule m-

              oment, you a-

           re free of everyth-

       ing and nothing could

   possibly be anything oth-

  er than jubilant. These chor-

ds remain in your head and you

can change them on will like a radio.

They give you a needed distraction, a

relief from the pressure, an ungodly am-

ount of confidence, or even just something

to center yourself around. The patterns make that overbearing uncertainty

melt from your mind to puddles of woe on the ground. The alluring collections of each portion make

an enchanting thing that will forever be commemorated

in the minds of others.

Because I want to be a poet,
  I constantly look for beautiful things in the world.
  Whether it's a moment or a song or a person or even a moonlit scene.
  
Because I want to be a poet,
   I let my emotions flow freely through my work,
   anger, melancholy, wonderment, peace, true bliss.
  
Because I want to be a poet,
    I want to be truly genuine,
    to show that I am not just the ambivert girl who seems to always be
    smiling.

Because I want to be a poet,
    I encourage writing,
    the pouring of your soul spun into gentle words of compassion.

Because I want to be a poet,
    I only put my favorite writings out here,
    to show I might have some spark of Edgar or Abraham or Shel.

Because I want to be a poet,
    I continue to write,
    even though I sometimes don't even want to try and get up.

Because I want to be a poet,
    I thank you all for your kind words,
     they keep me writing.

What is "happy"?
                                                     Is it love?
                                                                                            Is it material things?
No.
Love cannot be defined.
It is as fluid as water, but as solid as stone.

I thought I loved you.
Secretly, I still do.
If anyone asks, I will always say no.
Always.

I know you don't love me.
I wish you did.
                                                                      But I'm also happy that you don't.

Your "love", is not a genuine love.
                                                  It is a corrupt love.
                                                                                                       A toxic love.

A love that I
don't
need.

The cascades of rain fall silently outside my window.
The lights are off, music is playing, and it is peaceful.
I think back to the time I felt true peace.
When my mind was silent and my heart was full.

I believe I was a small child, around 5.
My grandmother was sewing in the little room at the back of the house.
I was coloring and writing stories of the future I wished to behold.
I had no further inclinations that she might fall into a deep sleep and never wake up.

I believed she was immortal because she never changed.
Though she wasn't societies idea of pretty, I found her captivatingly beautiful.
Her light blonde hair which I too possessed, was a gift only we shared.
Her luminescent blue eyes were the same for me as well.

We watched tales of princesses and their matching princes.
We performed plays that I wrote.
We sang along to Elvis and Sinatra.
We shared tales of school and her early life.

I wanted to live like that forever.
Always together and smiling.
Laughing and playing.
Loving each day as it was given to us.

I will never forget those days blanketed in warm sunshine, especially in the cascades of rain.

I do not know where I am going,
for I have no clue where I've truly been.
I  would like to see the world in its entirety,
but I am so scared of the unknown.
I want to be lost in the sea of people I know,
but I want to be exceptional.
I think of you,
but I know I will never have you.
I need security,
but I ruin what I have.
I write fickle things,
but I yearn to weave beautiful words about important issues.
I hate myself,
but I love being different.

1
    2
         I always knew
3
    4
         But I still wanted more
5
    6
         And yet, you stick
7
    8
         But it was fake
9
    10
          Now, I'm ok again

Acrylic, watercolor, oil, pigment, ink, fresco.

The brushes gliding across the paper like Goblin King Jareth in the ballroom.

The colors are beautifully radiant, even more so than the sun.

The water blends with the paints, invoking a visually appealing swatch of color.

A shade placed with a tint, bringing forth a new and equally unique hue.

The colors spiral like Edgar’s mind.

Laying colors down to make a masterpiece,

leaving me at peace.

When the piece dries, it creates a whole new world.

If you’re lucky, your piece is presented to the world.

You feel like Picasso showing off how talented you are.

Then you start over fresh.

The new sketches that you hate,

you feel like a four-year-old scribbling.

The gestures, the movement, the eraser marks that are so prominent.

The marks stand out like the Berlin wall.  

You will try and try and try until you start over.

You give up for now,

until you start anew again.

A million blank pages pile over with your failures.

The failures are endless, so you give up.

Until tomorrow,

when you start again,

     and again,

            and again.

Little doodles on the sides of essays.
Tiny drawings on the cufflinks of jeans.
Light sketches on the soles of shoes.
Limited drafts on the insides of wrists and the ankles of many.

Flowers, crosses, words, names, dates, so many pretty designs.
All unique to its canvas of an owner.
Perfect ways to pass time in this boredom.
My favorite ways to express myself, with things drawn in my own style.

I love little doodles.
Aesthetic, harsh, bold, offensive, all of them.
Just doodles.

You, whom I dreamed of and wanted for so long, is whom I have faithfully forgotten.
You, who no longer hound my thoughts with your words and pretty smiles.
I have taken back my mind and my heart and am ready to live for me and only me.
So to you, I say goodbye and farewell, because you have been faithfully forgotten.

The stars began to fall as I spoke to you.
They shattered and sprinkled downward, taking light from the world.
The aftermath of the forsaken far more beautiful than the solidarity of the perfect.

I want to forever capture this beautiful moment,
but I know I can only do so in my brain,
forever singular in this beauty.
This lovely little piece of the sky will be mine,
and mine alone.

But now I give it to you, dear reader.
To take from this slip of infinity to make your own,
to help inspire you and to let you wonderful poets see all the beauty there is to behold.
Here's my present to you,
to hold, forevermore.

As the stars get closer, I realize something.
They are not stars, but little memories of the times of childhood.
They glow like that due to the innocence surrounding them.
When they hit the rough earth,
they are torn apart by the expectations of our teenage years.
The blissful, sweet moments shared in close quarters are lost to the harmful hallways of high school.
Tears cascade across my cheeks as if running from the unknown.
Or worse, the ignored.
I want to reach out and touch them,
to hold the blinding beauty and never let it slip from my fingertips.
But I can't.
And it hurts, so bad that I can't breathe.
However, I don't fight the dark this time,
I let it take me slowly,
staring up at the memories,
and I float.

I write about feeling empty a lot.
                  But I never write about happy days.

Days of depth-defying conversations trailing on the edges of unknown.
                  Days of wanderlust and the need to explore.
Days of beauty and grace and everything right with this industrialized world.
                  Days of all of these horrendous emotions cascaded into an oblivion so deep in my soul that I can no longer see nor feel it.
Days of happy tears and sad laughter.
                   The best days full of painting in the breeze with music floating endlessly above and around me.
My favorite lazy days bursting at the seams with ****** Toons re-runs, hot chocolate, comfy pants and soft light seeping through windows.
                    Those were the days.

As I finish the final exam of the year and wait to be released, I cannot help but wonder about the peculiar fluorescent lights.
How many things have these lights seen?
I know they've seen the wondering eyes of bored students, but what else?
Spilled secrets
Notes to cheat
Teary eyes
Little doodles
A birds-eye view of our whole world.
What would it be like, always shining and looking from beyond?
Is it lonely?

Beyond the veil is a place to marvel,
where a dream can find a place.
With columns made from marble,
it´s like a slap to the face.

With pleasure as far as the eye can see,
and little nooks to behold.
A wonderous land of make-believe,
And where our minds and hearts never grow old.

We all have a little bit of historical context backing up our stories.

   It is what he did in the past the effects the present,
or it is what she said the controls how I think and feel.
It is past poems and songs and writings giving fuel to new ones,
it is the memories of people who only exist in our minds and hearts.

   There is truth to the stories told from both sides of the mirror.
There are intricately spun lies to help rather than hurt.
There is that little bit of peace and love that has shaped you and me and us.

But there is also no historical context at all.

   Maybe something is caused by nothing and it is rather unexpected.
Maybe a new friendship, a new place, a new feeling or maybe it is even a new person that invokes all listed above.

   There is an old past and a new present to each person and their own story, we just need to learn how to appreciate them.

I don't need to be saved.
From myself,
my perils,
or, you.

I don't need to be told I'm broken,
for I know that better than most.
I am aware I am hurting,
and that there are fake smiles that never reach my eyes.

However, I don't need a great love to be better.
Not romantically anyway.
Though it would be nice,
I value self-love above lust.

I am getting better, day by day.
By myself, for myself.
Though I still hurt and let tears run rampant,
I am me, and I believe that to be poetic of sorts.

I feel pretty with my makeup,
mysterious with my clothes,
experienced with my heartache,
and alluring with my inner demons.

I don't need to be saved, I need to do the saving.

I stand, but she doesn’t speak. It isn’t because she doesn’t want to, she just can’t.

She's “asleep”,

but I know that isn't it.

I know we came to this hospital because they couldn't “fix” her at the other one.

This is the fifth time her heart has seized, I know this is the last time I’ll see her “alive”, but I can't speak myself.

I'm embarrassed and awkward;

    And I hate myself for it.

I don't tell her I love her, I don't tell her it's okay if she leaves, I don't say goodbye.

    And I hate myself for it.

Mama says she can hear us, but I know she's trying to make it better. Jayden accepts her statement indifferently. I look at him and plead for him to say something first.

To say goodbye, to say anything because I don't want to be the first.

Mama asks if I don't speak because I'm heartbroken. I tell her that's it,

because if I do tell her, I will accept and acknowledge the fact that I hate myself for it.

I want to say something,

     I want her to hear me,

          I want to hear her laugh,

                I want to say something,

                     I want her to hug me and say it will be better tomorrow,

                           I want to say something.

But I can’t. And I hate myself for it.

Because I know her soul has left and this is an empty shell that is only “alive” because of that stupid machine that keeps talking.

That stupid machine that beeps.

     And beeps.

           And beeps.

It will forever be imprinted within me, with the smell of that bleak room, along with that hate and bitterness. That doesn’t even measure to that stupid soulless self-love of me.

That stupid hatred that bubbles like a bathtub overflowing if I even think of her and how brutally big-headed I was.

The problem is that I don’t hate her, I hate me and my elite mindset that is egotistical and so incredibly egocentric.

So vain, so incredibly vain I am.

I’m horrible.

      And I hate myself for it.

Then we leave and I didn’t even say goodbye!

My poem's are greatly inspired by my experiences with family and friends. My intended effect of the poem's is to show people that the ones who smile the brightest, cry the hardest. I like to show the true nature of humanity in its raw forms. How I design my poem's is complicated, as is the process. First, I pick a topic that has impacted me in a substantial way. Next, I write a paragraph from raw emotions I experience. After that, I put it into a poetic structure and add pretty words and metaphors, similes, and other figurative language and devices. My process of writing doesn't take long at all. When I write, thoughts come fast and hit hard. I like writing, I especially love poetry, the genre allows you to be outlandish and mysterious. Another reason I love poems is the emotions that are evoked within each piece. They are expressions of beliefs and feelings, ones that we don't allow others to see. It is hard to imagine the people who are popular and "happy", often are depressed so they try to make others happier than they are themselves. My favorite pieces included "I Hate the Vanity", "Auditory Communication" and "My Incomparable Comrades". These pieces show the things that make me who I am in the biggest of ways. In "Auditory Communication", I spoke about music and it's beautiful aspects. In "I Hate the Vanity", I wrote about how I felt when my grandmother, the only person I truly opened up to, passed away. Also, in "My Incomparable Comrades", I showed the way my friends and I are connected. My style is dark and chock full of emotion. It is different because I am not afraid to open up to people, because I know everyone is struggling and hurting inside. I love poetry, and I want others to love its simplicity and its alluring qualities like I do.

As we draw our little lines in the vast space of sand, we also step over others, worn away indentions.

We hurt and we break and we cry.
Then we rebuild and repeat.

Always keeping time and cutting ties.
We just keep crossing lines.

We just need to erase these lines in the sand
and wipe away to start again.

As I near the inevitable end of summer break, I am filled with excitement at a new school year..... but I also feel dread at the reminders of student life.
Although I love the poetic justices of 80's movies occupants and their school life, I cannot help but feel cheated.
Watching Molly Ringwald have rad adventures with Anthony Michael Hall, I couldn't help but think that I, too, would get to experience a magical birthday or fall in love or have a wacky adventure.

  I wished to be Andie in Pretty in Pink, or Claire in The Breakfast Club, or Sam in Sixteen Candles.
I longed for the friends who were as weird, or even more so than me.
To have the beautiful boy fall for me in that cliche way we all love.
To be a different kind of unusual beauty in a plastic world.

   I would still love all of these things, HOWEVER, I love my life.
I would not trade my current comrades for Duckie, or ******, or even Sara Baker.
I wish not to change the circumstances or a crush or a mutual liking that may never happen.
I can't, unfortunately, say that I love my natural beauty.

   Even as I long to live like Molly, I long to live like me.

I have begun to be uninspired.
Little pieces of poems with a blank, surrounding screen.
I do not remember when writers block set in.
I do feel, however, that I can escape this listless typing.
With a little help and a lot of research on new words,
I can become un uninspired and unlost.

While I cannot say that I have experienced a "true", once in a lifetime love, I do believe that I know what love is.
Love, to me, is not just an emotion, but also a thing or a person or a memory or a place.  

Love can be a memory or moment.
Love can be the blissful lazy Sundays spent with your favorite people after a long night.
Love can be the family meal with sudden, abrupt laughter that just bubbles up from your throat.
Love can be the hugs you never knew you needed and the words you thought you'd never hear.
Love can be that favorite song that makes you want to scream its lyrics until your voice is hoarse.

Love can be a thing.
Love can be the last gift your grandmother gave you.
Love can be a picture of your best friend right after you did the flamingo challenge.
Love can be a book of poems that gave you the start you desperately wanted.

Love can be any place.
Love can be a library that gives you an endless amount of worlds to choose from.
Love can be the school cafeteria where you spend your favorite minutes of every day with the people who make you laugh and not care about how you may be perceived by others.
Love can be the small space in the back of the house where you paint and listen to the rain.

Love can be anything or everything or both.
It can be life, and it can be warmth, and it can be the good standing hand in hand with the bad, and it can be what makes you happiest.

I do not believe that you have to have a significant other to have love, I believe that you can be fulfilled by others and by the things you enjoy.

Love is just, love.

How lovely you are,
in your isolated state,
away from differing opinions,
of judging eyes and prideful flaunting.

How lovely we were,
only us,
only laughter and happy midnight tears,
only the truth we let each other see, no lies.

How lovely the way we fell apart.