And isn't it funny being alone?
I can never tell if it makes me more depressed or less.
I am the least social butterfly.
Who am I kidding.
I have not yet grown wings.
I am just a caterpillar making my way among the brightly colored orangeredyellow leaves.

I hate and love everything.
And everything I love with a fiery passion, I invariably hate with the same fire for making me feel this much.
******* all.

Every person and thing I have loved:
you have all controlled me.
And that thought in itself is terrifying.
Is it-- was it-- supposed to be that scary?
Am I doing all this wrong? Anyone care to take the wheel for a bit?

I am not an adult.
I will become one once I stop writing love poems.

I am the last bird to fly south for the winter.
I am the last insect to hear the sprinkler system go off. So here I am.

Drowning because I was dreaming.

And I will drown in every last tear I shed.
In every sip of red wine.
Every drop of blood I spill.
And every shower I take to sob quietly and in peace.
I will drown in the plethora of emotions I feel.
I will drown in love and in hate.

Lie me down on cold brick to prove to me how stable I can feel.
Float me along a river with your hands pushing up my back to show me there will always be something keeping me breathing.

remind me remind me remind me remind me remind me remind me remind m e for I will convince myself that I've forgotten.