does it bother you when my mind starts racing and one moment i'm thinking of what great friends were and the next it's all what-if-we-weren't and what-if-i-lose-you and all the **** that you say constantly that i should never worry about but i can't exactly help it and then i feel bad for feeling bad and wonder if you're annoyed but can't exactly stop worrying because that's just how i operate but i can just sit and hope that you understand...

...do you?

I don't like being left
under the bed
no thoughts
no memories
no love

...not a drop....

It's dusty down here.

But there is that moment.

You know, when feet come stomping into the room like a herd of elephants- there are only two- and the noise is so deafening until they stop in front of the table. The table that holds the radio.

Then the silence.
Oh, the silence is even worse.

But then....the fingers reach up like the ****** down in hell and press the triangular button that speaks of hope and peace.

They press play.

And I am no longer dust.

The feet skip around the bed, dancing to the beat and screaming the lyrics until they are worn with love.

The air picks me up, and I am no longer dust.

I, too, can dance.

I can no more weave words
than an arthritic spider.

All I do is open my fingertips
and let loose the emotions too powerful
to let out of my mouth
in hopes that they aren't sullied by the printed letter.

How is this silver?

I do wish someone would tell me
what effect,
to what extent,
my words
can inspire
love

and oh, if only that love
were in the eyes
of the muse

touch me and i make beautiful music
even though you're just playing me

I'm feeling like a hole in the wall
empty but patchable
ripped yet repairable
dead.

There's so much to a name
-would a rose by any other smell as sweet?-
but lately I wonder
about mine.

What does it mean?
And more importantly,
who is she?

I swear, I am more myself yesterday than today's current phase, but I cant remember yesterday to be able to tell myself how to feel alive again.
I don't feel dead.
I just don't feel me.

But who even
am I?

*Hello, I'm Nobody. Who are you?

A raging snowstorm
That halts the knight's quest
Author bleeds whiteout

Does everyone have a calling?
For, I think that mine's been stalling
And is simply appalling
Just how cruel our life can be.

Days when I'm glad he's staying
Nights when I stay up praying
Dawns when I keep relaying
Just how cruel our life can be.

The times when he holds me tight
Just close enough to feel just right;
I wake, then scream in hard cold spite
Just how cruel our life can be.

The day when your ancient old cat dies
The crude old sweaters your grandma buys,
That's when you come to realize
Just how cruel our life can be.

Dressed in liquid reality,
Flames fanned by false equality;
Yet sometimes we may never see
Just how cruel our life can be.

Everyone thinks they can name me.

Hannah.

Daughter, sister, student.

Niece, neighbor, friend.

But my name, my name, hasn't been foretold
and never will
because my name
is Nobody.

What's yours?

A time to start pondering new wishes
and how close you know you can get
to them before the hours chase you
back to the cot where you started

isn't it just hilarious how I don't even know how mentally old I am like not in a haha i'm a kindergartner type way but more of a i still haven't found myself type way like the fact that i need a kind of alone version of hide and seek to find myself but i'm still not done counting off yet and i don't know when i will be because things keep changing and flurrying around my head like lost and gone and happy without me and happy before me and four years and seventeen hundred miles and razors and flowers and drip drip drip i don't know where i'm going i don't know where i'm steering and i told myself i wouldn't panic i won't panic I WONT PANIC I WONT PANIC but i do anyways and the culmination of all of this is just the beginning the beginning of the end and i can't even see past my own breath and even that escapes me and i just wish you were here you with your hugs and you with your whispers and you with your comfort but you three aren't and i'm stuck in the middle of a mud puddle a mile long and i don't think it's ever going to go away so maybe i should just resign myself to sinking

lightning, bright as the sun
etched on eye, and mind
shaking with the thunder
rendered, deaf and blind

clouds, passing on
to the beat of striking shards
and ears, listening fond
as the storm's bright music starts

the darkness always passes
it's always been this way
storms and gales revealing
a newer, brighter day

so sitting on my roof
I sigh and blink, in time
I will no longer be aloof
because in a stormcloud, there is rhyme.

what is this feeling
lurking around within the confines
of my head
and my heart

its not numb
but it is neither happy nor sad
it is hope for later
it is hurt from earlier
it is undefinable
what is this feeling?
is there a name?

Meet my words with your own, make me feel something again.
Is it blunt of me to wish
you'd write me a
palace?

Once more, just once.

Write to me, and help me feel.

I didn't know what to do with it, I guess I was just driving aimlessly; no signs, no lines, no lights to tell me when to stop. And when I finally broke down in everyone's way...you were there. You were the distraction I needed. I fell for an idea, a legend, a figment. I crashed down hard and didn't know right from left; yet left to my own devices, I could feel one aspect remained-the protection. Your words captivated me like the scent of an autumn breeze after a long hot summer, forming a protective shield around me, a thicket paragraphs deep. I fell for a distraction...you fell for a lost traveler. How can we distinguish one feeling from another when our very beings are tangled up in this mass of rhyme we have spewed forth? Silver words falling from bejeweled tongues clash together in a blend of titanic proportions, and we are one. All we need is closer, closer, and soon the joined words come from inseprable lips; did Shakespeare know? Had he the experience, the awe, the losses? How could he compare praying hands to bounden lips if he didn't? We are the new Shakespeare; we write our own story with our enjoined hands, entangled legs. Our fingers meshed together spell out what our tongues cannot. We write our own love story, forging through the trouble that is past and the fear that is to come. They say actions speak louder than words, that an image is worth ten thousand words. Well, whoever they were....they were right.

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

I think I did, at least

Was there one to begin with?

Then why am I so lost?

Too many commas!

Did you EVER once stop to consider
How breath
Pausing breath
Like breath
This breath
Gets breath
Monotonous?!

I didn't know moaning had two purposes. for real.
and this isn't meant to be ******.

but when you're rolling over the couch
over
and over
and ******* over again
and nothing seems to make sense,
especially the times you force air in and out of your throat....

why the moaning?

because I know for one
panicking
is not pleasurable

I am scared of commitment,
but I have committed to being scared.

A quiet mechanic named Bone
Lived in his house all alone.
So he built a new wife
But she caused so much strife
That he rebuilt her into a phone.

I'm picky. I like who I like, and that region does NOT include everyone, far from it.

Maybe my selectiveness is my downfall, it leaves me alone more often  than not.

But do you deny me my wish
to be wanted
to be loved
to belong

I had never fallen that hard
And no, I've never classified my feelings as love
and the same applies there
but I can't help but wonder
what I did wrong

It keeps me up until the words aren't words anymore
but rather spikes behind my eyes
waiting to impale me
as soon as I know she's moved on.

I know it won't be hard for her, and that's not a jab at her amazing self.

I'm just too willing. And easy to forget.

I had you convinced.

And if you don't admit it,
You're kidding yourself.

Why can't I
do what's socially unacceptable
with my regular time

But if I claim it's for an experiment
then it's deemed
fine?

Just thinking of the emerald
stained optics that attend
the seminars behind the red curtains
that close over his eyes
make the lace-structured legs beneath me
want to give out

I want the blood I shed to mean something.
Is it bad that I wonder what people would say, how they'd react if I was gone?
I'm not being dark. I'm musing.

I don't want to be a thorn in anyone's side, I don't wish for attention that sometimes I forget I need.
I'll be sitting, music blasting out the demons, and realize I've forgotten to eat. To sleep. To breathe.

It's to the point where it's almost not sad anymore, you know? Like I've forgotten how it was before this cloud became something that'd stay with me forever. And it's at coasting, numb points like this where I honestly don't even know if I want to feel better. What is better, anyways?

And they always tell me I have so much to live for. And I do, that's the only reason I don't go. It's not the fact that I'd miss so much about my life and everything that I have before me to accomplish.

I don't want to hurt anyone by leaving, even though my hurting would be over. This is the one area where I wish my incessant selfishness would take over.

So, pardon my venting, pardon my sad songs, pardon my black and white photos. There isn't much silence, happy music, or color in my life right now. And I'm okay with it, as much as the pain stabs, it's more of a dull pain.

Maybe one day I'll understand how it is to feel again. Maybe. No one would have even known  if I hadn't had an outburst, let my selfishness take over in a thundercloud of confusion. It won't happen again, I can't let it. I can bottle feelings. Letting go is harder. They didn't know, it needs to be that way. They need to be protected~<3

*And she cried,
"Kiss it all better, I'm not ready to go
It's not your fault, love
You didn't know, you didn't know"

How come I always end up paying for wishes?
Aren't they supposed to be free?
Why is recompense part of the deal
when they're supposed to uplift little me?

Why does the brass lamp cost money?
Doesn't rubbing it mean luck?
Why must I pay a penny a day
If it won't guarantee I'm not stuck?

(n); mistakes, broken hearts, emotions
(adj); overdone, drastic, desperate
(v); to cry, to please, to manipulate, to be a "victim"

Press'd as drying flowers be
with saturation's sound,
be livelier than ever he
did dance or jump or bound.

Forc'd as oft as running bears
that heft their berry claim,
do love and run with anon scares
and seek the pow'r to maim.

if words were actions i'd be dead
or, perhaps, living inside a bright yellow tulip
with an acorn for my cup and a walnut shell for my bed and a full heart in my chest
or, maybe, i'd be sailing the seas on a lily pad
with nothing to sustain myself but dreams of what each wave hides
or, possibly, i'd be sitting on an old front porch
nestled in a rocker and watching steam rise off my tea into the morning fog
or, perchance, i'd be weaving roses into the village girls' hair
while they sing to me of their dreams of love and i respond in kind
or, potentially, i'd be sitting in the nook of a high up cliff home
writing a book at the window seat while lightning storms outside
but, more believably, i'd be where i am.
because words are words, and actions are actions.
and i am me.

A small white floret
blooms in adversity-
is it the rarest and most precious?

We will let the gas decide.

Little girl.
Lamb?
Kitten?
Child.

Purple bows
and purple misty clouds
that sweetly alight
on purple mountains
and purple hopes
that climb high.

My purple little girl.
Purple- wisdom, extravagance, royalty

...my little princess.

Don't inconvenience yourself, please. I'm fine, really. Go about your business, nothing to see here.
Just a girl who feels like her ten mile relationship has become a thousand miles, uncrossable, uncontrollable.
Don't worry, no worries at all to be found here.

Just empty space.

That's all there has been for a while...

...and words can't fill it.

Becoming she who hurt you until you couldn't breathe for the tears...and causing that for someone else

My fingers
tapping out a
beat stronger
than my heart is

Why do they hold
the power that they do?

Why is it that
my heart, the
organism writhing the confines
of my small chest
can't out its feelings
to the ones who need
to hear
it most?

tap, tap tap

My fingers
tap out a beat
foreign to the
pentameter of my tongue
and the pulsing of
my blood
and the tapping
infiltrates my soul

nothingness
blankness
silence

The tapping
deafens me, so
loud that I can't
hear myself think
or even hear my
own heart beating.

If it beats is the real question,
the one I would pay
a million dollars
to have the
answer to.

tap, tap, tap----tap, t-tap

My fingers shake
above the wooden counter
in my kitchen as
they try in vain
to say what
my heart and my
lips cannot.

Actions
speak louder than
words.

But music
speaks louder than
actions.

...are you even reading this?
Rereading, even seeing this?
Do my words reach your ears
or get buried within the years
stretching between you and me?

If I were to drop out my heart on a platter
and give back what's given to me;
If I were to cry hard but make not a splatter,
what's there left for to see?

Emotions are made for the playing of heartstrings
and picking of sentiments true;
But if we were bigger and grander with love-things,
wouldn't we be happier too?

Minds are the makers of falsehoods and lying
and pressing the lighting of thoughts;
But pulling the curtain on Fate's newen'd vying
could overturn many famed lots.

So treasure the ringed things that protect your heart
and plastic the lives that you own;
For living is telling, and telling, an art
that helps us to thrive and to grow.

If only you let me....
     I'd take you whole, make you mine, and never ever stop.

If only you let me....
     I'd build us a teleporter and whisk you away, even though you know I don't like leading.

If only you let me....
     I'd be the One.

Then there's the question.

Will you?

He had golden eyes
Though some say they were green
They marveled and they wept
Over many a lovestruck scene

He had golden eyes
With violet titanium hue
And steely determined devotion
And love that's loyal and true.

He had golden eyes
That filched their tint from sunlight
But daydreams never do last-do they?-
And he was gone when the time wasn't right.

This cigarette within my hand
Is full of black, black ink
It comforts me to understand
Why smoke helps me to think.

I'm merely a mirror,
a two-sided fearer,
who walks with the grace of the dead.

I'm only an owner
of masks that make too sure
I don't let out what's in my head.

Leave me in my own abyss.
I've been thrown plenty of ropes, trust me.
But it's hard not to use them
to create my own noose, you know?
Leave me be, then.
Whatever.
Not like anything will change.

I know you're here.

But have you faded far enough
that your ears and eyes can't
hear me?

Hi.

I just wanna be a savior, just once.

I wanna help someone become who they are
because I can't. Can I do that for anyone? Do I hold that power in my words?

*When the sun goes down
I'll hold you through the night
Protect you from the monsters
That you keep inside
Cause you’re a nervous wreck
And nowhere feels like home
But if you give me a chance
I’ll never let you feel alone

When you wish for more
More than you're given
More than you'll ever get...

When you dare to contemplate a life with more
You're definitely sure
To drown.

I'm the friction between your silk sheets
and the picture you hang on your eyelids
I'm the breath that fogs up your bathroom mirror
and the life that you left behind

I'm all the wonders that you bury
beneath you bed to rust along with
the tired Narnian lions
and Middle Earth'bound hobbits

All your fairy tales are over
and as you descend over her
for the final time
and are close- so close-
You realize

Your fairytale
is coming
to an end

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.

****, please text me, I'm ready for you*
Why does life
Have to be a constant
*******?!