His bed is the ocean
created by tears flowing
from heart ache and abuse,
but also tears of joy
that gently rock him to sleep at night, cradling his every thought, collecting in his head like stars in the sky.
The constellations of his mind forming songs, and poems and god knows what that boy can dream of.

The smoke rises from the cigarette
she puffs as if moments from her life
were floating away.
Each puff tearing away another fragment,
every story stripped away from her.
But she needs it.
Like some sort of
magical elixir
that maybe, somehow, might ease the pain.
Her paper heart has been duck taped back together
too many times;
there are holes where her love should be,
filled with alcohol soaked corks and anything else that could
heal her fragile heart, white with powder.
She snorts lines of hope on her dresser in the morning,
little crystals that shine brightly in the sun, neatly clumped like long rows of sand in the desert forming long hills. Eventually, she thinks, I'll be free of this paper heart.

Darkness fills my room,
Windows shut out
like my heart,
black as night.
Clutched in my arms
is my last picture of you.
why did you have to leave? i miss you so.
I'd gladly walk to the end of the world
tie my heartstrings into a lasso
to pull you back to me,
or maybe a noose,
and i'll kick the bucket.

We bond over sad songs and broken memories,
a toast to the times we shared
and the places we've gone.
And though they're only in my mind
I hold them dear
like the memories were real.
The times we ****** up,
or even stayed home on a cold winters night
curled up together in a blanket because the heat went off.
your love was like pure ecstasy,
warm and wonderful
but depressive after the come down
realizing you were never and will never be here,
as I want you to be.
So I locked the door to my cold room
curled up and waiting for a reply,
any reply
instead of this silence.

These months have been so cold,
as I bundle up
staying in my moms office.
The roads became ice
so I've camped out by my computer
staying up into the wee hours of the night.
Dare I say
it's hell?

I wish I didn't doubt myself,
drowning in thoughts of
"Why can't I be like him?"
These words flow from my arms,
into poems that come from my heart,
yet coming to perform them
I constantly doubt if they're worthy.
These words are either
my pride and joy,
or just some teenage angst
cut into the fabrics of the interwebs.
"Why can't I be like them?"
always the question on my mind.
Are these really my open and honest heart?
Or just some teen ******* written out
in an attempt for attention and a cry out for love?