There is a voice I hear in my head.

The familiarity of it's demands leaves an ache in my forehead.

It forces me to stand up and try again, and again, and again.

It tells me to reach higher above the clouds and into the galaxies of possibilities or else I will be low into the ground of soiled promises.

It cannot be silenced for it is engrained in every neuron that fires in my brain.

I wonder what would happen if I didn't listen but instead worked at my own leisure in my meadows of thought.

What would become of me?

Would I melt into an unabled thing that trudges along or would I lose the will to create a life that isn't what people see in the future?

Would I become a piece of lint floating through the air and time?

The voice has silenced me with the fear of being without it. It has silenced me with fear of barely skimming the surface of what could be.

The voice doesn't tell me to drown, it tells me to swim even when I want to lie still.

It is the will to keep going.

In the world of colors, I was a deep purple. A dark cloud in the midst of a golden palace - royal tinged with a sadness that blocked rays of light with a deep gray. My dark thoughts twisted around oak trees and into the roots of this one world. It is not be assumed that all was depressing but comfortable. There were rarely rainstorms for the self rarely allowed drops to fall from one's face. Just deep, heavy clouds.

What is this new world that I am in? A big, glass room that reflects the burning sun as it beings to rise. The self has dug its heels into the start of a sunrise. Highlighted with fury, my thoughts bounce off the glass and into my body, jolting with energy. I have yet to see the sun fully rise as I am stuck with the burning sky. One day, the heat ooze out onto the earth and crumble the glass, forcing the self to contend with what comes next. But right now, every inch of my skin is soaking up the blazing sun that it had missed so much. Maybe a full rise isn't welcome right now, but it will be one day.

Poets love words.

We love the meaning that goes behind every verb, noun, and adjective. We rely on words. We rely on them to convey our emotions and thoughts into pieces of poetry that whistle in the wind and into the horizon. We utilize hyperboles and transform the world into a canvas of color. We don't just tell our partners we love them, we tell them that they are luminous. We feel. We feel deeply. Every letter, every word, every sentence seeps into our crevices as we release them to the earth. We unravel the power within speeches. We.. we.... we just love words.

Look at the presentation and focus. Biochem stuff, cool.
  Maybe he is gay.
Stop.
  He had an awakened moment last summer. He said it.
Everyone is looking at you. Blink!
  Is that why he’s so private?
Pay. Attention.
  I hope he’s ok.
Everyone keeps staring.
Why do I care if people are staring?
People are noticing. Say something.
  Who cares, you’re high. Just laugh or something. Keep thinking like
  this. Bring in all the bad thoughts.
Maddy is talking to you, nod your head.
  My heart is speeding up. Ask for help.
People will feel uncomfortable.
  You need water.
Don’t be an inconvenience.
  Stand up and go to your room.
Don’t make a scene.
  Why can’t I just do what I want?
Stay put.
  Nobody knows who I am because I mask myself.
Look at the screen.
  Who am I?
Look!
  Am I me or what others see? I don’t know what’s right.
Keep your mouth shut and pay attention.
  Tell April that you aren’t ok.
Stop making this about yourself.
  My ex-boyfriend might be gay. I want to reach out. My heart is
  beating.
Show a reaction.
  My heart is beating really fast.
Don’t-
  Why can’t I just do what I want without worrying about the others.
  What is the real me? Who is the real me talking right now? I don’t
  know what’s happening. Who am I? WHO AM I?
Don’t forget to blink.

Do you ever sit and listen to yourself breathe?

We take an average of 16 breaths per minute. That's 23,040 breaths a day, or 46,080 inhales and exhales if you must.

But I don't think about this.

I don't think about my internal ***** systems that connect with the outer forces to push out air from my lungs 23,040 times a day.

But maybe I should, or we should.

Maybe we should take a minute everyday and hear ourselves breathe, reminding ourselves our bodies and earth have somehow created a perfectly balanced atmosphere for our inhales and exhales.

I don't know if that's miraculous or if the universe is just that good, but it's something worth pausing for, and breathing for.

We hung out one month ago and your face is still engrained into my mind as if I just saw you yesterday.

........

Music connects us, you and me.
Each harmony, each bridge rolls off our tongues

.........

Every time I start to write a poem about you, my mind drifts to

...........

I just really like you ok!!!

I keep smiling down at my brussel sprouts and I think people are noticing.

Paint, dribbling into water - each drop, like ink, bleeding into a haze as a home for the thick bristles of a brush.

A canvas, tones of rosy pinks and deep reds - blending like strawberries and cream. Love.

Fingers, chipped paint under its nails - palms splotched.

What is it like to be still?

Floating in the ocean, completely surrendered to the hues of blue that is the ocean and sky - blending into the horizon.

My head tilts back into the depths of the sea, and my ears are muffled into the water.

Silence.

My eyes look up into the vast, cloudless sky.

I don't hear anything and I don't see anything.

I feel everything.

Crawling into your sheets is comfortable. It's warm. It's safe.

But the earth is not tucked in every night.

The world goes round, and so do we.

Some move slowly; locking eyes with a small crush or quitting a job for something bigger.

And some move fast; stuttering "I love you" to your sweetheart or packing your bags because a better life is elsewhere.  

The earth goes round in a vast sea of unknown, as do we.
But the world keeps spinning, and we keep discovering. Rain or shine, we move.

It's the discomfort that brings comfort.

My head. My thoughts.
It's a bunch of you's and a bunch of me's, doing everyday things.
Sometimes you ride in the car with me to work when I'm feeling overwhelmed.
Sometimes you're buying ice cream with me at Raleys, and choosing the red box movie.
Sometimes you're lying next to me, telling me about your day as your fingers twiddle with mine.
I like the times when you're with me, but I want the times where I'm with you.

I don't share a lot with people. I share a lot with my notebook.

My feelings overflow onto a blank page.

My worst fears tower in the shadow of each letter.

My happiness bounces off every sentence.

And the things I love most stay hidden between the lines.

I sit and think about my life and I start tearing up because with the hardships that this world can put you through, life is still so beautiful. I am sitting here feeling my heart swell out of my ribcage because I am a human who can feel something. So simple yet so wonderful. Feelings. Emotions. Passion.
They are so great that I fear them. The thumping of my heart scares me because the things that make you feel so deep can hurt you the most. But maybe that just means you cared. Is it so bad to care? Is it so bad to feel something that is greater than yourself? Maybe feelings aren't so bad. Maybe we should welcome the heart palpitations, the butterflies and grinning for no reason. The day that I no longer feel is the day I realize that I am not alive any longer. It is 5.49pm on a Saturday. I am alive.

I am craving a love poem.
I want to accentuate your smile and the laughing lines that form at the sound of a cheesy joke.
I want to illustrate the traces your hands leave on me.
I want deep conversations and I want pointless banter that will keep us laughing until the sun lays it's golden rays onto your silhouette.
I want to record the sound of your oh-so-sweet voice in the dark.
I want your eyes locked onto mine in a big room of strangers and I want our next adventure marked on a calendar.
There are many things that I want, but it isn't this fictional character I have created.
I just want you.

A stranger once asked me, "What is your deepest darkest secret?" I laughed at his curiosity, hesitated for a few moments and then gave up.
"I can't think of any at the moment." I replied.
Lie.
"I'll have to get back to you."
Another lie.  
My deepest darkest secret is the words that spill from the ink of my pen into limericks, narratives and sonnets. It is the raw, most pure form of my fears, hopes and dreams.  
It is poetry.

Social Anxiety
[so-shull ang-zahy-i-tee]
noun
1. A condition that unexpectedly turns the most colorful canvases gray.

inside me is a tidal wave.
wrapped around my heart and suffocating my lungs, it stirs, and it stirs.
sometimes i feel it's mist clawing up my throat,
but my lips only part for the red sea.

inside me is a tidal wave.
twelve pieces of bone can't seem to succumb the riptide that crashes through the abyss that is my heart.
so it sheers into my brain and rolls down my face, leaving nothing but stained cheeks.

inside me is a tidal wave.
or so it used to be, for it has made it's escape.
anger had spit through my mouth.
determination had sweat through my pores.
and sadness had glistened in my eyes.
but happiness, happiness shines through my core and warms the crevices of my heart. happiness warms the bones that were once broken and happiness soaks up the flood that had once consumed me.

inside me is the sun

I wonder if the color green releases calm and renewal energies because it is the earth's carpet, magnetizing us down to earth.

I wonder if the color red wraps around passion and chaos because the blood in our veins rush evermore when we see something we love, and it rushes to our brain when our world turmoils.

I wonder if the color blue spreads hope for the sky as a crutch for those who have nowhere else to look but up to their god or to the formation of clouds that one cannot make sense of their cotton candy essence.

I wonder what color we are. What color does the earth reflect on us? Are we chameleons, morphing into different shades by the hour or are we permanent markers, bleeding deep? Maybe we are gray and receive color by what we surround ourselves with. That's how science works, right? A reflection of light in our retinas.

I am purple. There is a cloud of mystery and romanticism that shields me like a cloak, but my emotions run like rich velvet. Maybe one day I'll find a yellow who bursts rays of warmth. I think I would like to be with a yellow one day, the golden hour of colors.