people say i'm a good writer.

poetic means insight
stuffed full of conventions.

poetic means nothing is good enough

to be called what it is.

we have to cloak it in similes and metaphors

before it's declaired worth

another look.

sometimes poetry

makes me sick.

Sometimes.

Sometimes.

I write down everything.

and I

I push it

to the very back of the attic of my mind.

and I leave them there.

long enough to gather dust.

Long enough.

That I can feel the moths fluttering around

and the old smell of smoldered thoughts lingers.

Sometimes when I feel brave enough

and sometimes when I feel

like I might just be
big enough this time.

I roll up my sleeves, and clear the cobwebs from my path.

And I climb the creaky stairs

to the attic of my mind.

And I tear open the boxes

and I flip through the pages

that document every stored thought

"Maybe if I had...."

"Why didn't you...?"

they fly around me

they bite and sting my skin like poisonous insects.

Every last bit of my composure

twists and chokes and bends til it breaks

and it scatters at my feet.

And everything inside of me is begging to just get away.

and I know then.

I'm far too small.

and I stumble back down

to safety.

and you must understand

how I don't want to talk about it.

you must understand

there are things that gnaw and claw and eat my heart up.

unless I keep them hidden between pages,

and boxed

safely in the deepest part of my memory.

Where I might not

stumble upon them accidentally.

I guess february brings it out in me.

Forever isn't such a long time
when you're tracing
over every
single
second
with your fingertips.
..marking them with our insignia.

fashioning our hand crafted sign and hammering it into the dirt
"we were here."

forever
is our place.
where we cuddle up under the blankets and
sshh....... whisper secrets .
and we tell stories that all start out the same way
"Someday..."

forever just doesn't seem
endless
enough.

and i love

i love driving

with you. when

your hand is on my lap.

and you let me turn the music up loud

and i roll the window




all


the


way


down. . . . . . . .
even though it's freezing outside.


and it makes my hair all messy


and i'm hoping that wherever we're going is a thousand miles away.


and we'll never get there, at least not soon, anyway.
and i love it when you hold imaginary bugs.

and SQUISH

them

and make faces when you wipe imaginary bug guts on my shirt.
and i love.


when i make a sad face
so you tell me that you're just kidding.


you didn't really squish him. he's still in your pocket.

...because that's where he lives.


and i love.

when we play the chasing game


around and around and around


the pool table.
until i'm so tired i fall down. and


we laugh we laugh we laugh


and our smiles hold us together and float us up
above the world.

How people treat you is their Karma, how you react is yours.

I think we pick our fates.
I believe deeply that whatever you send out in this world, is what you'll get in return.
"As she has planted, so does she harvest; such is the field of karma."

If there is any form of a heaven or a hell that I can tell you I'm certain of, It's the ones we create here in this lifetime. We make our bed and we lay in it.

I try to truly listen when people are speaking to me.. because that's what i want most, to be heard.
When I feel negativity I try to influence others to see the silver lining... because that's what I need, to hear someone tell me that it'll be okay.

I don't mean to sketch a picture of myself for you of a person who is flawless, or who says the right things, because sometimes decisions I've made create a world of hell for myself within the walls of my mind.
I, by no means, mean to sketch a self portrait of someone who is perfect.


I'm just trying to pick a fate for myself that I can live with.

And someday, my time will be up.
And everyone I love will stand around me and consider my life. They will cut me in half and examine my soul inside and out.

and I'm just trying to pick a fate for myself that I can die with.