We all are stories in the end.





But somehow our stories connected,

To form a most wonderful tragedy,


I grew up with flowers in my hair,

Dirt on my knees,

Stains on my elbows,

And roots in my heart.


I dare you to try to uproot me,

Because I am a wild thing of earth,

Roots, dirt, clover crowns, and flowers.


And they take care of their own.

I said was independent, and you sought to take that from me.

Because you wanted me,

To be dependent,

On you.



I wish I could find words to describe you.

I’ve learned Latin and can say “cow” in French. I’ve heard Italian, and read in Spanish. But I have yet to find any words in this world, strong enough to write poetry about you.

So the world,

Will never know you,

Because it’s words,

Are not ready for you,

Because you darling,

Are pure poetry in an alphabetic world.

Bare branches are beautiful,

You don’t have to hide behind,

The vibrant mask of your leaves,

For me darling.


Just because,

You are afriad that they will judge,

Doesn’t mean,

That I will.

Writer’s Words

They took my words from me,

The only thing I thought they couldn’t.




But did they?


My mouth formed the shape of words,

And my vocal cords whispered the vowels.


My brain spun new poetry,

And my fingers attached themselves to a pen.


Did they?


I think not,

Because you can never separate,

A writer from her words.


Grief can harden them,

And anger can make them red hot,

But you never can take a writer’s words,


And so you can never take away mine,

Because I am a writer,

Even if you never saw it.




The sad part about losing you,

Was that you lost me first,

And I not only lost you,

I lost sleep,





Inside jokes,


And myself somehow.


People change,

Were you really such a big part of my life,

Less than a year ago?

Because you are such a stranger now,

And it doesn’t even hurt,

To know that.

You made me forget all my words, and sayings.

You made words disappear, and poetry unwrite itself.


And the scariest part is, I can’t tell if that is good or bad.

Glow Stick

I rather be  a glowstick,

Than a neon light,

Because glow sticks break,

Before they glow,

And neon signs are shaped,

And molded by hands.


I will always want to be a glow stick,

Instead of a molded copy,

Of myself.

I looked for you on the porch swing,

And in the mossy patch in the garden.


I looked by the swing,

Around the bookshelves,

On the cold concrete bench,

And in you room.


I looked around the paint supplies,

And peered closely at the pastels.


I shook your favorite books,

And checked all your favorite hiding knooks.


But I guess I was looking in all the wrong places,

Because I found you nestled in my heart.

Wierd Girls

She wondered where all the weird girls went,

During lunch and after school.


She wondered if they went chess club,

Or art skills.


Or maybe they just piled into,

A beat-up minivan with dirty wheels,

And sang funny and embarrassing songs,

On the way to one of their houses.


Whatever they did,

She was sure it was brilliant,





And magical.


Wear your strongest smile,

Your most loved shirt,

And your baggiest pants.


And be happy, for today is a rainy day.

I was once told,

Words are fragile things,

That need to handled,

With infinite care.


No one ever told him that,

Because he tossed them like bullets,

And the effect,

Was devastating.


You never built me up,

You tore me down.


There was me,

And you,

Both poetry,


But we should have known,

Something so good apart,

Would never work well together.

Let Go

I dug my nails deep into my palm,

And clenched my fists around my anger.


I closed my eyes to trap my tears,

And put my hands over my mouth to keep in words.


I put my hand on my belly to quench hunger,

And wrapped my arms around my myself to keep all of me in.


And I think it’s time to let go.



Don’t keep so much love,

For everyone else,

When you should have some,

For yourself.


That doesn’t make you selfish,

Or them any less loved,

For you to love yourself.


Last night I felt like poetry,

And that is the best thing to feel like.


I had my yarn bracelets,

From an out-of-control hobby outbreak,

Two years ago.


I had my bracelet with a small mustard stain,

On the back.


My nails were coral,

And teal,

From a much needed best friend day.


I wore my vintage boots,

My hair was naturally curly,

And I wore my favorite shirt.


I felt like poetry,

And if that is not the feeling you get,

When you are beautiful,

I don’t know what is.

You are Poetry

Blue jeans.

Crazy (Curly) hair.

Chaco sandels.

Messily painted nails.

Hair ties on wrists.

Smells like lavender and lemons.

Saffron colored socks.

Sketches of burks on your walls.

Blue eyes.

Gold star earrings.

Acrillic paint stains on your hands.

Old bike parts.

“Perfect boys only exist in books.”

Palm trees.

Mountain peaks.

Calligraphy pens.

Darling, you are poetry.

Did you fall, or did you let go?
Was what I asked, too much?

Just a pair of hands to hold,

A mouth to tell me stories,

And eyes to cry with me.


Was that too much,

Or too little?


She was made of sunlight,

And never saw a cloudy day,

Sometimes that is a blessing,

And sometimes a curse.


A desert curse,

An ocean’s blessing.

I once knew a girl,

Who loved color more than anything,

But she did not paint.



She found people that the world had left,



And white,

And she gave them her colors.











And other colors.


In a way she did paint:

She painted those the world had taken their color,

And that was the best kind of painting.


I was always running a race you said,

And you never could catch up,

So one day when I stopped,

You passed me,

And I realized,

That chasing me was the only thing,

You ever enjoyed about me.


I was told to bloom,

As if it was easy,

Because growing never is.


I was told to bloom,

When I only had seeds,

And felt the disappointment when I didn’t.


But yet when I finally did bloom,

I did so with brilliance.


I had flowers of every kind of color,

Twirled and twisted in my hair.


Vines like ivy and morning glory,

Twisted themselves around my wrists.


I bloomed,

But it never was enough,

Because I never did,

On your time,

I did it on my own.


There was a stereotype,

I was told of,

The moment my fingers hit the keys:



There was a rule,

I learned,

As soon as my first story,

Hit the brain:

Be Quiet


And there was a strong emotion,

That I knew,

The first time I cried,

While writing:



And after I knew these three things,

I felt disappointed,

Because I didn’t fit into any of them.


But you know what,

Somehow I don’t have to.


Because I am a writer,

And we come in all shapes and sizes,

Races and religions,

Styles and smarts.


And there shouldn’t be a stereotype,

When we are all wonderful.

You said I was too much.


I had too many weird words,

Too many bad days,

Too many little flaws,

And too many things.



I don’t.


Because while you rant,

That I am too much,

I will think,

How little you are,

Not to be able to see,

How brilliant all my “much” is.



I am never too much,

You are simply too little.

Alphabetic World

I never belonged anywhere,

Other than the pages of a book,

Living inside other people’s word,

Until I started to write.


I found my home in similes,

And created paintings of my devising,

Out of words like “euphoric”,

And “nostalgia”.


I made metaphors out of air,

And concrete poems out of pictures.


I found an alphabetic world,

That was longing for poetry,

That it might never understand,

And so,

I gave it poetry.





And inculate.


I lived in hyperboles,

And sang homonyms.


To sum it up:

I did not only give the world poetry,

I gave the world the true me,

And that by itself,

Was pure poetry.


Self Portriat

I did a self-portrait today,

And when I looked at it,

I cried.


The girl I painted there,

Was not one I ever thought,

I would be,

When I was younger.


I thought I would be happy,

Neatly organized,

Perfectly aligned,

Full of technique,

And brillance……..


But no,

My self-portrait was different.



It had a girl,

With crazy hair,

A freckled nose,

Colors swirled on her skin,


And cheekbones.


The colors like bruises,


And strange.


And I wondered,

Why I painted myself so.


Then words came flooding back,

As if a dam had been broken.





And words filled my head.


But there were not good words,

They were dark words.


Bad words.

Horribly words.

And words that were used,

To describe me,

By others who never cared,

To know me beyond my skin.


And then I knew,

My self-portrait was so crazy:

I was crazy.


I was not going to fit into lines,

Squeeze into techniques,

Or fold myself into harsh shapes.


I was going to wild,



Full of brilliance,

And purely myself.


So when I painted bruises,

That is ok,

Because we all have,

Wonderfully colorful bruises,

From words spoken behind our backs in halls,

Or to our faces by “friends.”


I have bruises from words,

Do you?


Break her Heart

It has been over nine weeks,

And boy,

She stills talks about you,

As if you were,

The only boy on the earth.


And one day,

I hope you realize,

Who and what you left behind,

When you decided that weird,

Was not cool,

And that she,

Was not worth it.


I will smile with her,

And make her laugh through tears.


I will agree with her,

When she says you were not all bad,

But I just want you to know,

What you did to her.


You gave her seven weeks of bliss,

And now nine weeks of heartbreak.



Don’t bounce back and forth,

From girl to girl.


Stop and see the damage you do,

Every time you treat them,

As if they are the only girl that matters.


Or when you call them silly nicknames,

Hug them “Just because”,

And give them promises you will never keep.


Because boy,

You sure did something to my best friend,

And that was:

Break her heart.




We are all hurricane’s,

With lightning dancing across our skin.

And darling,

Don’t let him down-size you,

To only a tropical storm,

Or a drizzle,

When you have the power,

To do so much more than that.


I once met a boy,

That I loved more than postcards,

Vintage photographs, looking up at the sky with my telescope,

Calligraphy, watercolor paintings, highlighters,

Loopy gold cursive “L”‘s, brown and blue Ilama socks,

British accents, creamy pasta, my vibrant yellow pastel crayon,

Seashells, lollypops, black hair, names that start with “P” or “R”,

The number “32”, peonies, dimpled baby hands, the word “aqua”,

Hot cocoa, 7:34 a.m, cookie dough, yellow ribbons, happy tears,

Metallic pens, abstract art, sea glass, robins, slides, coca cola’s in glass bottles,

The year 1955, cactuses, lumpy soft pillows, dark green bedsheets, breakfast toast,

Ice cream, pop music, mysteries, the smell of an old book, lemon and honey tea,

The month of May, Narnia, cute mugs, creme pie, recycled light bulbs,

French braids, wildflowers, fairytales, bonfires, pizza, blue and grey beanies,

Record players, typewriters, garden gloves, fresh cucumbers, feta cheese,

The word “Someday”, baggy sweaters, brown paper bags, purple roses,

Turtles, neon letters, Ireland, journaling, hippie grunge, marble, yellow sunbeams,

Velcro, Switzerland, butterflies, charm bracelets, dream catchers, soccer cleats,

Quotes, easy math equations, Literature papers, perfectly thin and grey skipping stones,

Cold lakes, the word “Smitten”, paisley designs, crepe cakes, scrambled eggs, marshmellos,









And he,

A boy with sandy blond curls,

And sea green eyes,


Only loved me as much as he thought he could,

A curly haired dreamer,

With blue-green-gray eyes,

Whose mouth was always full of opinions,

And head full of words


But somehow,

That wasn’t love,

That was trying,

And he (The boy),

Only hurt me,

In the most tragic wonderful way possible.


And in the end I finally realized my mistake,

I loved him entirely too much,

Because I forgot to love myself,

Along the way.


I’ve always disliked bullies,

And tried to understand,

How much hate and insecurity,

A person can have,

In order to weigh others down.


But I never realized,

That I could be ranked,

Among them,

Because of what my head says,

And what my lips whisper when I stand,

In front of a mirror.

If I had to say,

What my life’s work is,

I would hate to say,

That it was losing weight.

Counting calories.

Peeking at the back of packages.

So instead,

I will say,

My life’s work,

Is learning how to love,


She was always a little bit of a rebel,

So when she figured out,

That society profited,

From her not loving her body,

She loved it,

Because that was a rebellious act.

I grew out of my jeans today.

I have been wearing them for over two years, and somehow I still feel like I grew too fast.

I wore them when they tightened around my waist and thighs.

I wore them when they squeezed my calves and ankles.

And I wore them because I was in denial that I needed new jeans.

Some people would consider it funny, how others hate getting new jeans.

It is not the fact that I spend money on denim, but the fact that I grew.

My waist got bigger, and my thighs probably did too.

Which means while I have been avoiding the scale, I have gained weight.

No, it is not the denim.

Or the squirmy feeling in my stomach when I pluck size six jeans off the rack.

It is the feeling of the failure.

Like I have failed myself somehow.

All the days I only ate one meal or less.

All the days I tried.

All for nothing, because I grew out of my jeans today.

And I cried when I folded them away.

I know my little sister might never wear them because her thighs don’t touch.

And she doesn’t hate the scale.

So I will fold away my jeans that I grew out of today and perhaps never see them again.

Goodwill might have them in a few years, or make I will make so new DIY craft out of them.

But the fact is: I grew out of my jeans today. And I cried because that means I have somehow failed.

I don’t know why or how, but I do know that I feel like two years is not long enough for a pair of jeans.

I hated my body for a very long time,

And never reached the peak,

Of anything I ever wanted to do.


The day I started loving myself,

I completed every bucket list I had wrote:

Be happy.


Hating took so much energy,

And I wish I had learned sooner,

How to love myself.

I sat before my mirror today,

Trying not to hate my reflection,

And told it,

“It’s time to make peace.”

My reflection blurred,

And I finally realized,

That acceptance was the key,

To finding me.

I use to know three girls,

Who all hated some part of them.

One girl hated how tall she was,

So she never wore heels.

One girl tried every weight loss thing,

In the book,

And wasted two years of her life,

Trying to get skinny.

And the last girl,

Hated herself for how skinny,

She was.


Oh, girls don’t you see,

You don’t have to change anything,

To be beautiful to me.


It’s all twisted in your heads,

And I wish it wasn’t,

Because your beauty is real,

Even if you don’t see it.


Don’t let one thing define you.


Don’t just be the girl who wears pink,

And blue striped socks.


Or the one who doodles on her hands and shoes.


Don’t take your wonderful  mess,

Of large hips,

And wild words,

And try to squeeze it,

Into a 2 by 4 square,



Or “Wierd.”


Don’t take the normal adjectives,

You have always heard,

And place them a label,

Right below your name.


Because darling,

If they were ever used to describe you,

They have been overused.


No one could simply sum you up,

From your bright painted toe-nails,

To the roots of your curly and frizzy hair.



Take crazy words,

Like paracosm,




And iktsuarpok,

And throw them around like confetti.


Because darling,

Don’t trap or squeeze yourself,

Under a one word subtitle,

Underneath the word “Me,”

When you are,

So amazingly magnificent.



So darling,

Be a never-ended scrapbook of old thoughts, obessions, feelings, and emotions.


Because that is the best way,

To live as yourself.


It is truly amazing, isn’t it?

How I view the girl I was,

Before I met you,

As the most beautiful stranger,

And how I view myself now,

As a person I feel like I know,

But don’t.

A rib cage protects the heart,

But it did nothing against you,

It bent and softened,

And to this day,

I still blame it,

For my broken heart,

Because it was supposed to protect it,

More than I could,

Against you.

You’re a little bit of a story,

That I have never read,

But I want to,

Yet I am still busy,

Writing my own story,

And I don’t have time,

To read yours.


I waited for you to bring me flowers,

But I was a foolish girl,

Because you never would.


I finally realized,

I could make some,

Out of poetry and paper,

So I did.



And they were more gorgeous,

Than any flowers, you could have brought me.


I might have been a foolish girl then,

But I won’t be one around you,


“There are good things inside of you.”

She was told when she was young,

And she always asked,


No one ever answered,

But only smiled,

And said,

“You’ll see.”


When she was older at age nine,

She gave her lunch,

To a girl who had none,

And proudly asked,

If kindness was the good stuff,

Inside of her.


At age eleven she always asked,

“Is this?”

Because the girl who was older now,

Was starting to give up hope.


At age twelve she quit trying,

Because she didn’t think,

She had good stuff inside of her,

Because whatever was there,

Had turned bad,

And was a dark twisting mass.


When she was fourteen,

The older girl realized,

That she has lost her sun,

And had not seen,

The twisty dark shapes,

For what it was:

A garden exploding out of pots,

And running trellises up walls.

Rose bushes full in bloom,

And tree’s with stretching roots.


She went to her parents who smiled,

When she asked,

“Is a garden the good stuff inside of me?”




I’m not the Person you Want

I’m not the person you want.

Because the crystal perfect girl you see,

Is only the best illusion of me.


I’m every bit crazy and weird.

I have horrible and horrific bad days,

And wonderfully pleasant good days.


I will argue with everything I have,

And fight with everything I am.


So please don’t say,

You want me,

Because it hurts to know,

You only want the girl you think I can be.


Expectation has never been my friend,

And acceptance hasn’t either,

So when you say it’s me you want,

Please make sure you mean it.


I’m not perfect and I’m tired of acting like it,

And I won’t anymore,

Because if you want me,

You better accept all of me.


And I can’t imagine you doing that,

Because you want something I’m not.


I could pretend and act like the perfect girl for a while,

But I know in the end my heart would still be in denial.


You won’t accept my foundations,

Which I built myself upon,

And challenges everything I have.


You make me doubt myself,

And the people around me,

And then you call it “Love.”


I am not going to say sorry,

For everything I am,

Because that is what you seem to expect out of me,

And I would never be able to say it honestly.


If you really wanted me,

You would accept my choas and my calm,

My mess and my neat,

But you are not doing that.


Stop saying you want me,

And you will try to be better,

Because we both know you won’t.


I’m not an object for claiming,

Or something to show off,

So get over yourself,

And understand,

That I will never accept what you say.


You say I’m beautiful,

Like you charm every girl,

And it just makes me tired,

Because the only adjective you can think of,

To describe me,

Is beautiful.


I heard your friends tell you to “step up your game,”

But boy,

Don’t you understand,

You will never accept me for me,

No matter how much you say you will,

And no matter how many times you say you want me.



Don’t say I will I will be nothing without you,

Because boy,

I was more before you came,

And I’m tired of hiding,

Because you decided you didn’t like,

Certain parts of me.


Stop saying you want me,

And actually tell me the reality:

That this was all a game to you,

And I was nothing more,

Then a pretty face,

If that.


I’m my own person,

And my own rock,

I am my own friend,

And the only person I want to accept me,

Is myself.


The only person I need to love me,

Is myself,

And she hasn’t been doing that,

Since you were around.








There is a simple sort,

Of perfection,

That is hidden by the average,

And by god girl,

You had it.


You laughed outrageously,

And cried uncontrollably.


You sang horribly,

(Or so you said)

And you wrote beautifully.


You never wore anything,

That was uncomfortable,

Because “beauty” wasn’t worth that to you.


You ate anything sweet,

And devoured anything sour.


You stole cookies from your friend’s lunch trays,

Because you secretly put most of your food,

On one of your

friend’s plates.



You stole your friend’s grey beanie,

And wore it all day.


You debated about everything,

Because you had an opinion about everything.



And I only hope,

You never change,

Because the girl I fell in love with,


Because she is already perfect,

To me.

You never knew,

How to love me,

And that is the reason,

I left.

You knew how to love me only,

When I was inside a cage,

That kept me “safe,”

From the world,

But darling,

I let you cut my wing tips,

Long enough,

Because that is my world,

In the dangerous heighths of the sky,

And you have no right,

To take it from me,

Just because,

You labeled it dangerous.


She tried to tell,

The world,

Of the beauty,

They had mocked,

When they called her,

And her kin,


And “Wonders.”

They pulled them up,

When they were in bloom,

But lavished them in praise,

When they remained small,

And out of sight.

But world,

You were wrong,

Because the clover’s,

Are a worthy crown,

For any queen,

And they belong,

In the section called :





“You’ve changed.”


I hope so.

Because there are so many things,

That needed to be changed,

About me,

At least,

That is what you said,

When you walked away,

And out of my life.

I still put,

A hundred and ten percent,

Of myself in all things,

Except for love,

Because I learned with you.

I’m still stubborn,

About anything and everything,

But I’m not stubborn,

When a person,

Won’t accept me,

Because then I know,

From experience,

That they never will.

And I still cry,

Some nights,

When I miss something,

But don’t know what,

So in truth,

I kept all the disliked,

And got rid of the things,

That I never liked,

But you did.

I moved on,

And I changed,

Because I didn’t want to be,

A cookie-cutter girl,




She  always reached,

Towards the sun,

And never let her face,

Look down.

All the little,

Garden flowers,

Basked in her shade,

As they whispered,


“We wish we,

Were like her.”

But the whispers,

Never reached her,

At her lonely height,

As she thought,

“I only wish,

I could be like them.”

They were small,

And great in number,

And never knew,

A lonely day,

And how she wished,

That her stem,

Was shorter,

And her face not pointed up,

Because while all the pansies,

Black-eyed Susans,

And peonies,

Talked and mingled,

She could only look up,

And wish she was like,


When the summer left,

And the winter came,

Her stem blackened,

And she tumbled to the earth

To join all the little,

Garden flowers at last,

But they looked at her sadly,

And said,

“We always looked up to you,

Why did you have to fall?”

And it was then she realized,

That from her lofty perch,

She could see,

A world they never could,

From their short stems,

Close to the earth.

She was different,

She was tall,

And she was,

The queen,

Of the garden flowers.





She sits in my history class,

And never meets my eye,

Like I would see something there,

That she didn’t want known.

Her binder’s cover,

Says in pink and blue letters,

“Cool kids don’t need sleep.”

And I wonder if that,

Is what she tells herself,

When she can’t sleep at night,

Like that excuse of a lie,

Can make everything better.

I know that,

She never meets anyone’s eye,

Not even her boyfriend’s,

Who she sits with at lunch.

And I think I know the reason why,

Is because they would see,

Dark circles,

Vainly concealed with make-up,

And old,

Tired eyes.

Maybe she is afriad,

That she won’t be,

A cool kid anymore,

But a misift,

Who has a long named condition,

And a fear of sleep.

She pinches her pale cheeks,

In the bathroom before lunch,

And uses the same excuse,

“I’m tired.”

Yes girl,

You are,

You are tired of life,

And tired of being afriad,

Of sleeping.

So next time when you cry,

In the girls bathroom,

Don’t cry for him,

Who left you,

When he found out,

Or all your cool friends,

Who whispered in tight bunches,

Cry for yourself,

Because you are completely lost,

In life.


She has always loved food,

So when I describe her,

I say,

She is a beautiful cupcake,

With frosty pink icing,

And yellow sprinkles,

Living in a world of,


Chocolate chip,


And blueberry muffins.



I was just a girl to you originally,

Who sat in the back of your Algebra class,

But one day,

You asked for a pen,

And I guess,

We just started talking.

My phone number was saved,

On your phone as a “friend,”

But  I wish I could say,

The same about yours.

We talked for hours,

About the craziest things,

Like popcorn,

And Star Wars,

And football.

I guess I never realized,

That I was lucky,

Until I saw you,

Ask another girl for a pen,

In the hallway,

And now I don’t know,

If I was lucky,

Or I wasn’t enough to make you,

Want to change my number,

On your phone,

To something else,

Other than “friend.”



And I️ wonder if,

He had regret or guilt,

When he left me,

In the hole that we dug,

Looking for love,

That never was there.


A seed has to,



And crumble,

Before it can grow,

And it make sense,

That she is a dandelion,

Because she is,

Too tough to be daisy,

For she has,

Grown and flourished with cracks,

In her heart and mind,

And you always treated her,

Like she was a hardwood,

And when she tried,

To tell you,

That she was a dandelion,

You left,

Because she was too common,

And you couldn’t find beauty,

In something you,

Thought she wasn’t,

So in the end,

She is a dandelion,

The toughest of the “weeds,”

And I️ know she isn’t,

A proud rose,

Or a humble daisy,

But that shouldn’t have mattered,

If you truly loved her.

She tried so hard to be ordinary,

Because she didn’t realize,

How important the things,

That made her different,

Truly were.

Ocean vs. Palm tree

I️ think it finally hit you:

She was an ocean,

With white caped waves,

And hidden reefs,

And sandy beaches,

But you still let her go,

Thinking she was a palm tree,

Only one among billions,

And that is where you were wrong,

So when you left her,

For a skinnier palm tree,

I hope you had regret,

As deep as the ocean,

Because that is what she was,

And you still left.

I wish I could prove,

To you,

That you are lovely,

And that,

Roses are lonely,

With their stems full of thorns,

And though you might think,

That you are a plain sunflower.

One day,

I️ will tell you,

That you are lovely,

And you will,

Believe me.

To him

I’m just another girl,

In his English class,

Sitting in the back,

And wearing a dark hoodie,

But man,

I wish that his smile,

Was pointed to the back,

Because it could light up,

All the darkness,

Trapped in the corners,

And maybe,

The kids back here,

Would feel less alone,

And I,

Would fall more in love,

With him.


You fell in love,

With my flower,

Not my roots,

Hidden under layers,

Of dark earth,

And it was easier,

To let you go when autumn came,

Then to bear,

The heartbreak,

That would have happened,

When you finally realized,

You never loved me at all,

Only my flower.

And then you,

Would have left,

When winter came,

And I would have,

Withered away,

Until my roots,

Where all that was left.

People say,

This generation,

Is messed up,

Because we are,

Too young,

Too selfish,

And too blind,

To amount to anything,

But how can we,

In a world of such doubts?

We have already,

Been judged,


And passed over,

And I can only hope,

That one day,

Those people,

Won’t be right.

Eyes can’t shine,

Unless there is something,

Burning behind them,

And you never saw,

My fire,

Because I was always,

Looking down,

Being something I wasn’t,

For you.

Over Him

No one knows,

The pain better then her,

Because every day,

She see’s him in the hall,

On his way to his Geometry class,

And every day,

She aviods his eyes,

And walks quickly past,

Because she is not,

And may never be,

Over him.

Let girls be angry,

Because that will fuel,

More emotion,

Then your “Love,”

Ever did,

And I’m tired of,

It being ok,

For boys to be angry,

But not for girls.

If my friend,

Asked the same question,

She did sixth months ago,

” Kind of a pretty boy,

Isn’t he?”

I️ would have a different answer,

Because he may look nice,

But his insides,

Are horrible,

Because he didn’t care,

When he broke my heart.

You were once,

In the photograph,

On the front page,

But now you are,

Just part of the album,

With the words,

“My life,”

On the front.

Because you were once,

The person who,

I valued above everyone else,

But times change,

And people do too,

And now,

You are just,

A photograph,

On a page,

In my album.

I guess I never learned,

That the person,

Who broke you,

Can’t put you back together again,

Because somehow,

I always came back to you,

And that was the problem:

I couldn’t learn how to,

Let go,

And heal.

I found myself,

In the wrong story,

One that was being wrote,

By all the people,

Whose judgement,

I feared,

More then loosing myself,

And that is when,

I decided,

It was time,

To take back my story,

One page at a time,

Until I had found myself,


She gave into the music,

Wearing her worn pair,

Of headphones,

Because maybe,

She was tired of hearing,

All the truth,

She wasn’t prepared for,

And facing the reality,

That he was gone,

And she had never felt,

So alone.


My mind is garden,

Choked with weeds,

Because I let,

All the bad stuff rot,

And it became compost,

For darker thoughts,

And I wonder why,

There are no flowers,

Poking through,

Because I know,

The darker the mind,

The more flowers,

Can bloom,

In the rich soil.


He gave you a sunflower,

And you smiled,

While he snapped a photo,

Without you looking.

Your eyes were closed,

And your wild brown hair,

Messily fell around your shoulders,

And somehow,

I knew he would treat you ok,

So I didn’t worry,

About him breaking your heart,

I worried about you,

Breaking his,

And yours,

All at once.


Everything is blue,

His eyes,

His football uniform,

His jeans,

And now,

He’s made me blue too,

And I wonder if,

It is worth,

Becomming blue,

To stay with someone,

Who never really,

Has ever loved you.

Missing you,

Always came in waves,

But tonight,

I can’t fight the current,

Because I’m drowning,

In the ocean,

That you created,

With my tears,

And the color of your eyes,

Forever imprinted in my mind:


I wanted nothing more,

Then to make our lives,

Into a work of art,

But you hated art,

Simply because,

It was the one thing,

That I loved more than you.

She was so artistic,

Painting smiles,

On every face,

But her own,

And letting the paint,

Drip on her hands,

Because she couldn’t find the courage,

To paint her own smile,

Until she knew,

That she had completely,

Forgotten him.

The hardest part,

Is accepting,

That you,

Never thought,

I was enough,

To last forever.

I was only,

Your for a time girl,

And that truth,

Hurt more,

Then you leaving,

Ever could.

Know Her

She’s tired of people acting,

Like they know her,

When they only know,

Her name,

And her outside appearance,

Because really:

They don’t know her,

Because they don’t know,

Her story,

And that is what her,

Who she is.

Wild Heart

I think,

The reason she became,

A wild heart,

Is that,

No one thinks,

A wild heart can be broken,

So it was easier,

For her to hide her heartbreak,

And no one saw,

Past her wild heart.




Always reminded me,

Of a gun,

Because your words,

Killed all my hope,

Faster then,

His sword ever did.

And I guess that,

There are different kinds of weapons,

And you were the one,

That I chose to stay close to,

But in the end,

I was the deadilest,

Because you never saw,

That underneath my skin,

Was a bomb,

On 0:00.


I want to ask you,

How’s life,

Because last month,

I was in it,

But for the last four weeks,

I have watched you,

Fall in love,

With somebody else,

And I don’t know what’s worse,

The fact that you left,

When I needed you the most,

Or the fact,

That I wasn’t worth,

Being sad about,

For four weeks.


Out of a loud room,

Full of music,

And disco,

My eyes are always drawn to you.

It’s always been you,

Even when I didn’t,

Understand myself,

I understood that,

It would always be you.


The thing I miss most about you,

Is the way you made me smile,

Because it was effortless,

And I loved that,

Because most things in my life,

Are not that easy,

And I always knew,

That when I was with you,

Things would easy for a while.

She only respected your opinion,

When you respected others,

And only wanted to know you,

When you had the same desire,

To know others.

When it came to art,

She did not try,

To hide the sadness,

Or madness in her soul,

Because when it was art,

It was finally,

Concidered beautiful.

I didn’t love you,

Because I had to,

Or because I knew,

That you would not always be here,

I loved you,

Because I did.

You would wake up,

With pain in your eyes,

And yet,

You would still brave a smile.

I saw you,

Wincing as you did,

The easiest thing,

And I loved more,

Because of your endurance.

You had humility,

Through the struggle,

And you only smiled,

When the doctors said,

“Cancer has no cure.”

You where simply,

The most beautiful thing,

And I,

Loved you.

He told me,

To find him a strong girl,

Who had came through the fire,

And ice,

And who knew,

How to break,

And how to glue herself,

Back together again.

And I wonder what,

I could say,

To prove to him,

I am that girl…………

You didn’t just break my heart,

You also broke my mind,

Because it is set on repeat,

Of the last words,

You ever said to me,

“I can’t love someone,

Who doesn’t love themself.”

And that,

Is how you broke me.


I wish someone,

Would tell all the boys,

That you don’t always,

Have to be strong.

Because when a boy,

Cried in study hall today,

Everyone laughed,

But they didn’t ask,

About his brother,

Who had died three weeks before,

Because a car,

Can end a life,

In less than a minute,

When controlled in human hands.

He had to be strong,

But sometimes,

You don’t have to hold in the pain,

To really be strong.


Tougher then the Rest

You pushed her down,

In the hallway,

And said it was accident,

When she twisted her ankle.

You pushed her up against,

Her locker,

While everyone was in lunch,

And she winced,

When she carried her backpack,

For the rest of the week.

You thought she would stay down,

Her eyes bent towards her converse,

But you don’t know her,

And so you didn’t know,

She was tougher than the rest.

When you called her,





You didn’t see,

Her fists clenching,

And her eyes burning,

Because you,

Never could,

Put out her fire,

And that,

Made you the angriest of all.

And when she came home,

With bruises wrists,

And cried into her pillow,

She was still not broken.

The next day,

She walked into school,

And you didn’t dare,

Lay a finger on her,

Because you finally saw,

What everyone else did:

She was tougher than the rest.

You had tried to break her,

To hurt her with words,

And punches,

And you had for a while,

But you never understood,

That some people,

Will bend,

And will take the beating,

If it means,

Someone else,

Won’t feel it.

So you finally know,

That not everyone,

Will break,

And that some people,

Don’t need to see your pain,

To know that it is there,

And so in the end,

She taught you,

That the most strong people,

Came through the fire,

The beating,

And the bruising,

Because all the strongest people,

Shattered once.




You fell for him,

You fell hard.

You fell for his eyes,

The endless blue color,

His smile,

The dorky half grin,

And his personality.

But you fell too hard,

Because he walked away,

And you had to collect,

The broken pieces,

Of your heart.

Because heaven knows,

You will never fall,

For blue eyes,

And a carbon smile,

Ever again.


I thought you were different,

And I wouldn’t come home,

To cry on my pillow anymore,

But the truth is,

I’m tired of meeting,

The same people,

In different bodies.


He was so deep,

And she just kept sinking,

And I wonder,

Why no one teaches,

Girls how to swim,

Because then,

She wouldn’t have drowned,

For his love.


She never use to,

Draw or paint,

But it is funny,

How artistic a person becomes,

When their heart is broken.

And you will never know,

How all her paintings,

Are of you,

And all her sketches,

Of a broken girl.

Because you didn’t just,

Break her heart,

You broke you soul.

And that,

Is why she is different.

You are,

Just another boy,

With dark hair,

And brown eyes,

But tell me,

Why I don’t find you stupid,

And how my mouth,

Doesn’t come up with,

Smart comebacks,

When I am around you?

Because the truth is,

You won’t get out of my head,

And what is in the head,

Is in the heart,

And that to me,

Is the scariest thing.


She use to want to average,

To be able to relate,

To other girls,

But she never could,

When she was living,

A life inside her head.


She finally realized,

That average,

Was never going to be her,

So why live a normal life,

When you could,

Be something better?




Was in theatre,

At school,

And I always wondered,

Why he did it.

And when I asked,

He only answered,

That sometimes,

It feels better,

To act like other people,

And live their lives,

Instead of his own.



Hazel Eyes

Her hazel eyes,

Where the most striking thing,

That you noticed,

When you looked at her.

Along with them,

She had a small nose,

With a few choice freckles,

And dark brown wavy hair,

Which was frizzy too often,

But always beautiful,

To those who really cared.

She had a slightly strange obsession,

With anything that was emerald,

Or velvet,

And she always wore,

Black combat boots.

She wasn’t the first person,

That  you would  see,

When you walked in a room,

But she was the one,

Out of the twenty-three w,

That you would remember.

Her quiet air,

Of silent serenity,

Drew people in,

Along with her,

Magnetic hazel eyes.

Most often,

Her daily outfit,

Was an emerald shirt,

Her boots,

A silver choker,

And a dark pair of skinny jeans.

There didn’t seem to be,

Anything strangely extraordinary about her,

But yet,

Her eyes were like a wild thing’s,

And no one could resist,

The pull of them.




Dark black hair,

Cold green eyes,

What happened to you?

You wear black jeans,

With holes in knees,

And dark thermal long sleeved t-shirts.

You always act,

Colder now,

As this world,

Has sucked away,

Your power to hope.

You hang out,

With the wrong kind of people,

Who meet,

In the parking garage,

Downtown after school.

And when I ask,

You blow me off,

Tell me not to worry.

But when I see you,

Leaning against,

The chainlink fence after school,

I do,

Because you’ve changed.

I knew the other boy,

With a smile,

And a nervous habit,

Of running his hand,

Through his hair,

Whenever he got nervous.

The boy who tugged his ear,

Whenever he was tired,

Or bored.

But I don’t know you now,

And that is the scariest part.


Creativity is Beautiful

Somedays she had painters block,

Or her anxiety kicked in,

And she couldn’t paint,

The art she usually did.


She would dip her paintbrush,

In the color black,

And paint the streetlight,

On West Maine.

Or she would paint,

The library girl,

Who was reading,

A slight smile on her face.

The smell of acrylic paint,

Filled her nose,

And her forearms,

Where splattered with colors,

Dark colors.

And then she would,

Wash her paintbrush,

And dip it a bright color,

She would swirl,

And clump the dark and light together,

Until they formed something breathtaking.

Because someone had once told her,

“Creativity is beautiful,”

And it was.

Then her anxiety didn’ t see as bad,

And the funky art piece,

Was hung on her wall,

Covered with art,

Of all kinds.

But this art piece,

Was perfectly unique,

Because the light,

Encased the dark,

And the swirling storm,

Of overthinking,

And fear,

Was trapped too.

Because creativity was beautiful,

And so was her soul.