Hey.

Can I ask you something?

What if?

What if I was taller, with glossy hair and no acne?

What if I was less socially awkward and more aware of friendships?

What if I was less clingy-am I clingy?

What if I was perfect?

Would you still want me....

You inspire my poems

You should be either flattered
or scared for your soul

She reads and never understands.

Where does she think, exactly, that I'm getting all this inspiration?

I leave myself alone with my mind too much, I think.

Note is wrapped around a small pink apple, the size of a fist*

I suppose
But what better honor is there
than to wait for the right time
and receive but more glory
in which to bathe your humble self
instead of crashing and burning,
being missed by all whose eyes
have had the pleasure of
meeting yours.

My irises,
for one,
would love
nothing more
than to witness
the fire within the
saddened eyes of
the friend I have made
easily, almost too easily.

Niklas.
It rolls off my tongue better than my
own name, it sounds of bells within
my dimwitted mind. If you could hear,
I would sing it over and over again to
be borne by the fingers of the wind
goddesses for your ears and yours alone
to relish, to give you rest from your
current toil.

How helpless am I, Little Cherie.

How can I possibly know yours
if you don't pick up the phone
or tell me what it is
that you
want
?

I won't ask for much.
Just a head to confuse,
a phone to blow up,
a heart to scar,
and a mind to blow.

Nothing crazy.
I want to be in love with you.
I want to fall deeper than I'm already falling.
And trust me, seeing my thoughts as they are now,
that might be an almost impossible feat.
Gravity has nothing on this.

So tell me exactly, when?
Why?
Maybe.....
...please?

If you were any less intriguing
I'd be able to tell you
Why you draw me

It's not that I'm making a rash statement of love
-aren't those usually too hasty anyways?-
But I have to ask if there's a possibility
If you have slightly begun to feel
The connection that I can feel
Inside your amazing self
Too?

How is it that my intuition, usually so on my side, can be wrong?

Perhaps it's not.

It tells me that you hate me. That you want nothing to do with me after how I reacted. That you wanted to say it much earlier but just wanted to spare yourself my reaction. That I'm way too sensitive.

I wish these things were wrong but I've no intention to assume so, not after thinking things over until 4 am when my brain and my heart are crying out for rest.

My intuition tells me to believe that it's not your fault. That it's happened the same way so many times before- I'm told no, then a rebounding yes, then an overwhelming no that leaves me in a shell-like trance gasping for air and grappling for hold of my emotions. It wasn't you, it was Fate. I'm not allowed to be happy, how is that your fault?

I wish this was not how life had chosen to treat me, but how can I change the patterns it has set for me? I can't expect that things are going to miraculously become one hundred ten degrees better because of a ****** set of words I post on a site where no one reads. Even if I were posting on billboards, it'd make my situation that much more laughable.

Maybe it's my mental state. Maybe it's the insane amount of time I have to spare in which I let my feelings elevate too much, scaring off any possible chance there ever was of perhaps feeling whole for the first time in I can't even remember how long.

Maybe it's my intuition.

Maybe it's Fate.

I pledge allegiance
to my heart
to live unafraid
in a world apart
in a dimension of fear
to have hope and love
in times where I tear
to rise up above

I pledge allegiance
to my heart
to let it rule
or tear apart
for of it I have fear
to lose hope and love
but i'll not shed a tear
but wait for attention from above

That song.
I'm trying so hard to get over you;
your words, your actions, your problems- why are they mine?

No, I'm not talking about a lover.
He is better than ever.

I'm talking about a friend.

One of my cohorts in crime,
my partnering master of disaster,
my worldwide favorite *******.

What exactly are you doing?

Why won't you tell me
what's compelling you to pick up
that gold crown
and drown
whatever is
ailing you?

Why don't you trust me enough to tell me?

They say poetry is a rhyme,
something that comes from long bouts of time,
that its' beats have to match
with nary a patch
and it it always sounds sublime.

But why are my poems sessions
of the beats of my heart
translated into pitter patters
from the keys of
my little old laptop?

I don't know.

Why don't you tell me
Once you've sobered up enough
that the words on this page
don't go flying off
into the depths of
a rainbow colored
outer space.

Iris.

Only song that can calm me down.

You;
Gold Crown.

Iris;
Me.

Vices......

If we weren't so sensitive
We wouldn't need
This iron curtain
Would we?

"We"?

I digress.

saying you love me and then beating me

To need
what you don't
necessarily
want.

I need you.

i miss writing hearts into my eyes
and drawing bombs over my heart
and dipping it all in silver,
claiming it came from my tongue
instead of from a paint can

did you ever think about
how we could have been as famous
as those burn outs that write
songs for girl groups with lyrics
talking about *** and heartbreak
when what we wrote about was
more real than the goosebumps
i got each time i pressed "post"?

i miss the vagueness, the inspiration
that flowed through me without
my even needing to try, just
sitting down at a keyboard and slamming
it against my forehead until songs
spilled out of it like silver

we were the best of poetry pen pals
that only looked to each other for
the words to say that guarded us
against the words said against us
when we got off our computers

write to me again?

i'll find myself
in a shattered drumbeat
on the waves of a newfound cry

when the sobbing hits
one ladder rung lower than before
and i decide that my feelings must live or must fly.

To convey how much
you loathe a person
in their very own
personalized font

To hold a candle in one's palm
And let the wax drop into a soul that yearns for brightness;
To polish off a set of silverware
That is set in the back of the china cabinet;
To these actions does one owe the breadth of sincerity
Reached only by the mobile and task-less mind.
When I was a young child,
Cloud scanning was naught but a foolish game
That only the sloth did chance to play.
Yet white pirate ships and marshmallow fantasies
Would still laugh and dance just out of my stunted reach
Until my tangled shoelaces tripped my idleness into
An emerald green oblivion as my knees met ground.
Parallels exist when one matures;
It's just as easy to trip over a pair of high heels.
To what end, then, do we owe the dusting off
Of the old mahogany boxes of memories?
To which source do we credit the rolling film
That replays childlike nostalgia through a sepia tinted lens?
To the wonders of the mind and the memories within,
We owe our deigning to produce and beginning to dream.

all i do is break up friends
hurt their bonds
burn the ends
all i do is make them cry
and it's my fault every time.

all i ask is not for love
time to remove
it means to shove
all i ask for is empty
for everyone to leave me.

if you find yourself
attracted to the simple
swirls of black ink against
white lined school paper in
a locker you know belongs to
her, you know that you have severe

problems.

Brush away the tears
Cover up the scars
Can you feel your limit to this pain inching closer across your wrists?

I understand
Who you are and what you are just can't
be hidden anymore

It may seem
Like your angels and demons won't come clean
and keep on plaguing you

I've been there, done that
I don't pity the blood covering your wrists
you hold the key
not within your heart
but within your soul, the cracked thing that is wisping out of your body faster than steam from a warm cup of coffee on a winter morning

I don't really have much to say today
to the ones who felt what I have
and those who still do
except that it's your own job to heal yourself

others have the potential to help contribute to your happiness
but you are ultimately the only one who can create it

Don't let your head be filled with doubt
I really didn't feel like rhyming....
but hear me out.

It was the kind of fog that makes you wonder if you're gonna be able to breathe when you open the door.

It was the kind of fog that makes you ask yourself if your glasses prescription is really strong enough.

It was the kind of fog that makes you speculate if your headlights are going to be sufficient to get you to work.

It was that kind of fog, and that kind of night.

So I sang.

If you just ask me to out my blades on your nightstand while casually checking your email on your iPhone, it won't happen.

If you offhandedly remind me to eat while heading out the door for a few hours, it won't happen.

And if you tell me living is worth it while slapping me in the face with a ton of mistrust and coldness, it won't happen.

Trust me.

when they pulled her down the stone steps
down to the dungeon
where they put all the little girls
who had done everything right

when they locked her into her own private heaven
in the golden dust
where the cherubs all sang
a new dirge every night

i was there, when she was too perfect
i was there, when there was just too much light

i reread every single piece i wrote about you. it was painful.
i don’t think either of us ever realized how much i cared about you. or that you probably never read them or cared or reciprocated or will even read this one. but that’s completely okay.
it just makes me wonder. if i has been more mature, if i had had myself together, if i hadn’t been anxious, if i hadn’t been a victim...where would i be now?
that was my starting point when i reached the insurmountable amount of pain that is college. and it’s where i needed to be.
going back is like going on a trip your parents decided to take you on and you have no choice but to be strapped into the backseat for the ride. once i started reading i couldn’t stop.
these words mean nothing, but the words i wrote years ago don’t. they meant more than just a mere something.
they were all i had.
and now it’s so enlightening to look at myself and see so much more.

I Will Connect Them

I will connect them
to the sun:
     let the gold run through her veins like liquid lava
     give his hair a soft, golden glow
     streak their cheeks with burning caresses
     stain the mother's brown eyes with molten shine, let it infiltrate her irises like a      counter spy
     splatter the flowers in the field with a bright, inhuman gleam

I will connect them
to the stars:
      let them reflect in her eyes and her new diamond ring
      place them in the tears of a father whose sole reason for living, the star he called his       own, has left to join the others of her kind
      place the shine among his midnight strands, hidden beneath shadow
      lend their light to the late night insomniac who roams Second Street, searching for       beauty
      give their inspiration to the ink stained man without a muse, bandaged fingers       tapping restlessly on the side of his coffee cup

I will connect them
to the sky:
     let the azure sweep over her glass-capped, personalized periscopes, and bend their
     pigment to match its own
     present the splashes of summer laughter to them in a cool, salty refreshment
     inspire them with fragmented hues and tease their soft spoken lips
     bleed the atmospheric tint into the petals of the rarest herb there is

I will connect them
to my creation.

I will connect them
though they
        see me not
        hear me not
        believe me not
        thank me not.

I will connect them
in hopes they may
      someday connect
to me.

He's always there, pushing for a moment of his own.
Will he win, or will he get pushed under the covers again?
Her eyes are warm and wet, glistening, and he sighs with the grace of the unknown passing through a door of the darkest shade of yellow there is.
But what of his dreams, his philosophies? What of his passions?
Her heartbeat fills his own, controls it. What more can he do to be himself apart from her?
He can push for his own time, elbow his way into the spotlight.
Or he can let her take control.

The stark realization that you're not here but rather, you were here in this bed, in these sheets, these arms....it hits me like a wave of lightning.
Tears turn to snow, fears turn to a numbing glow, and I miss you... Yet I know the rising operatic voices of the symphony of hope that plays in the background of my life's video game will rise higher than the brightest sunset and deepest tidal wave...because ironically, you miss me too. Through all my faults and accidentally elbowing you in the stomach and growling at you just because I know you hate it....you still miss me. How, I don't quite understand, and no matter how many times you try to show me, I'll still never get it, I'll just be mesmerized by the rave lights dancing in your eyes pulsing to the beat of my jack rabbit heart. Why can't we slow? Why can't we insist this isn't real, that we are going to wake up, why can't we agree to pinch each other to prove that reality is indeed upon us, that awakening to smell the roses is better than dreaming about them? Yet I find myself amidst the ardour of their smell and realize it is in fact an olfactory experience, and not a shift of the bored, school-ridden mind. Yes, you are real, far away- 1700 miles, in fact- but you are real; my fingers could touch a screen against your digitized fingerprints and somewhere, some way, you'd feel something pressing back gently as the dew. Because I'm here. And I love you.
And I don't want us to end. Ever.

What would you say
If I told you
I knew you wouldn't
Accept me?

Was I not good enough
For you to make
An effort?

Just the memory of you
Makes my eyes water
But is it with disgust
Or loss?

I'd be eternally grateful
if for just a second,
we could forget the distance.

Forget the timing,
the awkwardness.

Let's forget the oddity
and let's just be.

Perhaps it's a little
Rushed, a little
Harried, a little
Early

To love someone.

Perhaps.

I can't force you to sit and listen to me rant
But I can request
That you simply
Stay

Presence
Is everything

Watching him burn in hell
And repeating the words
He said to you
When he left
For the final time

I was the lock and she was the key.
She opened me up and beautified me.

To make oneself a lantern
Is to make one a disgrace.
For arts that make a man turn
Should come from more than a pretty face.

Nor does anyone, at this point, know who he or she is.

We all compare ourselves to an ideal image of ourselves
kept captive against our irises
by our eyelids

This is why
I'm stuck
in a broiling ocean
of self-discovery

No different from the experiences of others, all flailing and trying to stay afloat around me,
but just as tragic.
We do not pity one another.

We fight harder to earn the freedom that will allow us
to help others out of the water
when we in turn are strong enough

Peeling away layer by layer, I'm slowly becoming whole.
Wrapper after wrapper- will someone eat my candy heart when there's nothing left to hide it?
I'm so exposed, so open; the breeze wafts between layers, shaking them loose, and they waft to the ground like leaves.
Will this edifice be strong enough to stand on its own?
Built out of feeble candy cigarettes and held together by pink bubble gum, it's already been chewed up and spit out, more wrappings being formed to protect its' already collapsing structure.
Will it survive?
Will I survive?
**Chomp.

I don't want to learn.
I don't want to get over making mistakes
because without making them
I never would have experienced
what it was like
to feel like
that

I hope you know it's your fault.
I know you don't give a ****
because when I fell you pushed me down
and then proceeded to stand.

No, she breathed, melted snow dripping from under her eyelids like a fountain of frost. *No.
Feelings can lie. But, my head swirled as I stood suddenly,**Why would I?

I am not throwing away my shot
*Although it seems with you, I never had one.

what are issues if not explosions?
i know most, myself included, prefer a slow burn, a quiet scorch,
but explosions are inevitable.
it's figuring out what to do with them and how to navigate them
that is the fun part
you can build so many things
from that amount of pieces

Let me steal the moonlight from your hair
and bottle it

Let me get caught in the crossfire of your thoughts
and stay there

Let me intrude upon your late night musings
and become one

Let me borrow a few strings that make up your heart
and fortify them

Oh, the things I'd lay down, sacrifice, put away for you
If only you
let me

I hope you know
that i hate you.
I loathe you.
I despise you.
You bring out the absolute worst in me.
You're toxic,
and just seeing you makes me want
to *****
or to run and hide in fear.
I hate you.
Just hearing your name
makes me pity you
because I always pity those
who need others to
make themselves feel good.
I hate you.
I hate your need for attention,
and I wish you'd just die
because we all know you want to.
I love hearing about your pain,
your losses, and i'm glad
i've contributed to them.
You're such a monster,
and i hate you.
So pathetic, so weak,
and i hate you.
You're all of my hate and all of my anxiety
and all my stress and all my good memories
i've had to let go of.
Yes, i'm talking to you.
I hate you.
Sincerely,
Yourself

Dearest:

If I could touch you just once, then I'd be whole, I swear.
Sitting here letting youtube shuffle like the muddled thoughts within my mind, you're all that won't dissipate into thin air.
All Time Low, then church tomorrow morning, why won't you leave?
Are you lonely?
Do you need someplace to stay for a while?
Well, my arms and ears are open. Stay here a while.
Rest.
Everyone says "shes an invalid" and "she needs help", but I know it's not true.
Because if she feels half what I feel, all she needs is me.
And I need her more than the breaths I take, the words I write, and the ideas I spout.
One day, we'll be together again, angel, angel, angel. My angel.
My one and only angel.
And I can't wait for the day I can roll over in this same bed where we kissed and see your sleeping eyelashes fluttering admist your sleeping sighs.
I won't be doing much sleeping.
I promise.

it doesn't hurt to lose skin against skin sensations?
maybe i'm extraordinary, but
aching hurts
and i ache constantly

Twas pity that did **** her soul,
a murdress make her be,
but unkempt passions of her mind,
did bind her soul with thee.

Fie, the storms of roiling brew,
for shame, the frolick'd waves,
thy heart and head under wilt go
till she unmasks her grave.

I never lied as a kid.
I was the one everyone knew would take little to no disciplining, the one who was born mature.
How I let myself go, how I let myself change to accomodate someone in a negative way, I will never know.
And perhaps I'll never forgive myself.
I could never hate any of the people who illicited bad experiences in my life, simply because they've made me into a stronger person.
But complaining that I never did enough, that I've permeated your life in a negative way when we don't even talk, it makes no sense.
I'm not actively seeking to hurt anyone. I don't even talk to you anymore.
The difference is, I'm not a child anymore like I was when I knew you.
I don't care anymore.
People who can't get over the past, those who hold onto it and complain about it without actually trying to fix it, those are the people I will never give the time of day.
How could someone unwilling to make themself better for someone else's sake and for their own sake be appealing to speak to? To laugh with? To cry with?
They drag people down.
And I finally care about myself enough to root out the ones who need work. And I don't feel guilty.
I'm growing self esteem.
And the lies have expired.
For good.