Summer Rain

There’s a downpour outside my window.
I can hear the way the tears from Heaven fall graciously to the Earth,
but they are as unforgiving as the Devil himself.
It makes the world seem so quiet.
So small.
So peaceful.
Despite the way it slaps obnoxiously into the warm concrete
That creates a violent glare nearly blinding you from the oncoming traffic.
And I just hope to God that I don’t crash.
Or maybe, I hope to God that I do.

The rain can make me feel alone. It does that.
Even the way it falls together,
Never left behind
Or abandoned.
Like the way I feel when my heart plummets
Ten thousand stories, crashing into the ground,
But instead, I am alone.

Even if the rain could wash away my sins,
It would not wash away my memories.
It would not wash away the past that I struggled to over come,
And it would not wash away the strengths I gained but did not ask for.
It wouldn’t do anything…
Just like now.
It’s not actually doing anything at all.

Let’s Be Honest I’m Grieving

As low as my life is, I’ve never felt so down,

Like the bottom of this sinking ship, forcing me underground.

You’re just like the wreckage pulling me underneath,

Like the burdens left from promises, tangled in dirty sheets.

I won’t file any remorse for what I didn’t do,

You can blame it all on me, you say I’d do the same for you.

Left in lies and broken trust, to put the past behind me,

After all this time a victory is what I need.

So joke me something awful like when you fend for yourself,

You’ve never done anything but deflect it all on someone else.

And on to me, it is, my turn, I guess, or so it seems.

I can’t say I’m surprised, I expected it to say the least.

A time bomb set in motion after you didn’t heed my warning,

Believe me I know what’s for the best, now you’re left in mourning.

And all the bright ideas, we had made when we were young,

Seemed like yesterday, and now I’m at the end of the barrel of your gun.

My spine has been breaking, from the burden on my back,

Stop building it up more and more, with stories you say are facts.

I’m at a loss for words, from the ring around my throat,

You tied it awfully tight with the deceiving words you wrote.

I’ve got headaches, and a bad luck no one can cure.

They told me I’m unstable, but I’m right and that’s for sure.

And as crazy as they say I am, you know, perhaps you are right,

Because if I had it in me, I’d be leaving you tonight.

Yes, I can hold my own in a fight, but I’m better with a pen.

And I swear to you that my words would tear you limb from limb.

I can’t promise you anything, or that this is the end.

But I hope to god that this was worth standing up for him.

The 15 Minute Hour Glass

Time slips through our hands like the falling sand of in hourglass.
We clench our fists so tight trying to hold on to the past,
but we blink,
and suddenly
we’re left with nothing but fading
Half moon scars of memories.
Closing the doors of my past behind me make me weary to look back.
Afraid of the surge of pain I had neglected to feel all those times ago.
But as time goes on, we go with it.

Graduation

It’s hard walking the hallways that echo with memories of people whose names will be forgotten as the years go by.
Faces that will fade into blurred lines. Their power and popularity will dissipate and be nothing more than a blip on the caution radar.
Everything was about the grades, the boys, the drinks and the girls. It was what you had, not what you were worth.

Do You Know Me?

There’s something tragically beautiful about being loved, but in all the wrong ways.

Hark!

This poem was chosen as a finalist for a local Youth Literary Arts Award

 

She’s the girl with titanium eyes,

Swallowed the truth, along with her pride.

And from her fears she tries to hide,

For a love, which she could not provide.

 

She’s the girl with the runny nose,

Swollen and raw, cannot compose.

And twitch she does, from nails in toes.

As she runs from love, which everyone knows.

 

Yet she’s the girl with reddening lips,

Left cracked and bruised, aching and split.

And strain she does for a stolen kiss,

But love turns his cheek, and she gets the fist.

 

Yet she’s the girl with the broken heart,

Severed and sewed, from end to start.

And try she does to play her part.

In Love’s selfish play, a sad piece of art.

 

But she’s the girl with weeping eyes,

Swallowed the pain, kept it inside.

And from her fears she cannot hide.

For a love, for which she did try.

 

But we are that girl, all the same.

Left shattered and fragile, with no one to blame.

And hark! Your heart when it plays the game,

Your soul and mind will lead you two separate ways.

Don’t Remind Me

Attached somewhere is also a picture of me in a horse mask because it displays just how much I really don’t care.

Please don’t remind me
that my future starts tomorrow-
that I can see my childhood
all but evaporating before my eyes.

Please don’t remind me
about my calculus exam,
for I have reached the point
where I just don’t have the energy to care .

Please don’t remind me,
about that girl with the hair
whose now dating thatboy
because – seriously – why?

Sweet fuck do not remind me
of the intimate, explicit,
mind numbingly nauseating details
of what goes down under the sheets.

Don’t remind me that
________ starts in _______ days,
because I’m just trying, desperately,
to focus on the now and not the fears of the future.

Please don’t remind me
of all your vain insecurities.
The way you “look sooo gross”
only makes me feel like shit.

Do some of us a favor and shut the hell up.

Selfish Love

It seems as though, that
the ones who love the most
accept the least in return.
While we see, that
the ones who love the least
accept the most in return.

Because the people
who love enough, to give it away,
end up getting nothing back.
Because the people
who love less, take it away,
and give nothing in return.

The people who love the most,
are a strange faction of humanity.
So pure, yet empty from giving,
that they would accept pity for love.
Unaware of the hearts genuine passion-
Leads them to believe real love as pity.

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Ravens On My Writing Desk

If I could write something, so eye opening as waking up to the sun,

I would be happy.

Whether it meant uncovering something for someone else,

Or even finding my own way out of this darkness.

But alas, I cannot write.

Perhaps at all.

My mind just becomes words on paper,

Written in a flurry of tangled fingers and obscured thoughts.

I can never say what I mean,

Verbally

Or otherwise.

My mind races to fast for my tongue or my fingers to keep up,

And that beautiful thought I had mere seconds ago is gone

When does someone become a writer?

Is it when their first piece is published?

Or their soul becomes so old and one with the words that

They just are.

Does the writer write the words? Or

Do the words write the writer?

Do we fabricate the poetry and writing ourselves,

Or do we just channel their magnificence?

All the words, the feelings, bottled up in my chest.

Heaving. Aching. Collapsing within and crushing my heart

Until it explodes and pushes everything into my head.

(Oh how I wish it literally would explode.)

Then all these pent up feelings, the useful, the abused, the uncertainty

Flutter around in my mind like a murder.

I find beauty in their blackness, and the shimmering of their feathers.

But their talons and beaks tear into my soul,

Leaving gaps that may never fully heal.

And the worst part is, all the wounds came from myself…

From these feelings…

That I cannot write. Not for me. Not for anyone else.

I am not a writer.

I am a human with uncontrollable feelings.