Fanfares resounding
the crowd all too big
cheers around me
you stand on the stage
but they're not clapping for you.

My feet carry me closer and closer to you.
after all these years I'm still yours
there's no doubt about it.
I'm with you now, together onstage
but they're not clapping for you.

and while I might be yours
even after all those ****** years
tonight
the fanfares, the crowds, the cheers
are all for me.

my feet are cold
but i can't seem to to gather the strength that it takes to go and get a simple pair of socks.

i'm tired
i'm alone
i'm sleepy
and i need to finish my college applications.

why don't i have my life together yet?
why do my counselors expect me to?
i'm just a child.
i still cry when I watch scary movies.
i still need my mom to **** spiders for me.
i still have stuffed animals
and after years of knowing You
i still need Your approval.

i guess it's all my anxiety taking over,
but i've begun thinking about what i'm going to do when i leave,
when You leave.

what will happen?
will i cry?
will You?

i seem to cry lot lately.
i wonder if it has anything to do with our impending graduation.

i've had better days than this.
it's a shame they all involved You.
i'll never be good enough will i?
that's alright.
i've grown accustomed to Your rejection.

sad, isn't it?  
because no matter how hard i try,
all of these ****** poems will always lead me back to You.
i don't think You could care any less.

You make me want to die.

Dear 6th grade,

One day you will realize that he is not the most important thing in the world.
One day you will realize that he already did.
Long ago, actually.
You were just too love-drunk to notice or care.

You are not in the picture anymore.
You never were.

Learn this.
Face this.
Accept this.
Live with this.
It shouldn't be too hard.

You been doing it this far.

What's your whole life more?

Sincerely, 12th grade.

I've not written in a long time.
I'm sitting in a room surrounded by people who don't care about what goes on around them.
I sit among them wondering what the Hell I'm even writing about.
Nonsense, nonsensical words that mean nothing but the life that I give them.
What
          do
               they
                       all
                           mean?
You write almost everyday.
I know because you tell me.
You sit in rooms surrounded by people who have such deep, longing, arduous passion for what goes on around them.
You stand among them.
Stand because you greatly outshine them all.
Play, play, playing notes that breathe to life when you tell them to.
You learned to control them.
You
       give
               them
                         meaning.
                                           Like
                                    you
                    ­          do
                      me.

Summer is almost over.
I have one week to get my homework done and get my sleeping schedule back in order.
That's gonna be a little hard.
My hair has grown, refusing to let your fingers be brushed out of its tangles.
Buts it's purple now so at least I won't be able to see you in it.
All summer long I thought of you and plenty of other people that I'd left behind.
I thought about why you didn't hate me.
I thought maybe you were insane.
I thought maybe I was insane.
Either way, school starts in a week and I have yet to prepare myself to see you everyday.
I'd grown used to your absence.

In high school, my mom was an athlete.
A runner.
She was in cross country and so were my uncles.
She was in it to help and motivate them.
See my mom didn't run from troubles; she ran headfirst into them.

I got that same trait.
I am by no means an athlete, but I'm a runner.
I run when I'm mad, and when I'm bored, and for exercise.
The only difference between my mom and I is that she ran towards her troubles, but I don't.
I run and run and run and keep running to get as far away from them as possible.

I'm a runner.                
It's in my genes.