Forgotten Search

Today it was,
the first time ever.
I forgot to look for him,
down by his locker,
three down from the
English class door.
I forgot to look for him.

It took me
two years to notice him,
ten minutes to meet him,
one hour to like him,
three months to trust him,
and seven months to tell him.
And today was the first day
that I forgot to look for him. 

I smiled at her,
his girl, his love,
pride and joy,
I hoped.
The one I trusted to make him happy
and to make me happy
and distract me from the other him,
and distract me from
the loss of him,
and she did.
Because I didn’t look for him
today. 

I find myself feeling guilty
as if he was never there
a memory,
lost
forever.
Never in my life,
trusted him once,
never coming back,
and I may never see
him again.
Because I forgot to look.

Life Lessons

Me, we, you, us
truth, love, longing, lust.
Breath, death, air, and fire,
found, and lost, and passion pyre.
Believe, forget, forgive that is,
never become another’s last kiss
if you cannot live one more day
without wishing regret away.

A little bit of expirimentation. Short and sweet, but I sort of like it that way. Hope you enjoyed.

Missing You

I’m kind of sitting here wondering
where I’ll be tomorrow.
Loving you, or him?

I’m kind of sitting here remeniscing,
with the you’s that I’ve been missing,
the both of you.

I’m kind of sitting here hoping
that you’re thinking of me too,
that he doesn’t know about you,
because that would destroy me.

I’m kind of wondering,
where are you now?

And when I kind of wonder a little about you
I have to kind of wonder about him too
because he holds such resemblance to you,
a flame of candle
holding up a flame to you.
But I hope that you miss me too.

And I’m kind of hoping he’s missing me,
and remembering those little things
that you and I never did together.

Because you and I can share everything,
but really we are nothing,
because we both kind of love each other
without surpassing “that thought.”

Love? I’m kind of wishing I wasn’t confused,
kind of thinking about only you,
but I’d feel terrible if I wasn’t missing him too.

My Audience

I expected you to be my audience
my sea of clapping hands
and the chirping crickets in the silence.

My wings to my arms
the gills to my breath
my everything, my anything,
my voice.

I expected you to be my saving grace
the one thing about myself
that I could never ever change.

My hope in such a darkness,
the candle to my flame,
my smile, my laugh, my present, my past,
my future.

I expected you to steal my heart,
didn’t guess that you would then rip it apart
had no clue that trying to mend your mistake
would change me in a better, innocent way.
I expected you to be my audience,
my loud clapping and eerie silences.
Didn’t know you had the power to change my mind,
or that this love for you would forever change my life.

Woke up at about midnight with this poem running through my mind. Usually, I can remember these poems, but I liked this one so much, I had to write it down the moment the words crossed my mind, so here I am. Hope you enjoy as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Let Me Rescue You

Everything that matters to me
depends on if you are there.
You’re the addiction, the drug,
thats keeps me from disappear.
I sold my soul
for just one more moment with you
and so rightfully,
because you are losing you’re view.

You don’t see what you’ve done for me,
it’s the first time I’ve been free.
But you don’t see that they don’t care,
because they’ve never quite been there.
And they don’t know who you are,
or that you still wish on every falling star,
hoping to pick up the pieces,
I want to help you pick up those pieces.

Everytime I begin to write,
I feel the words form in my mouth.
“Broken” they always say,
but only for me, I’ve found.
My writings of you
are selfish for only just me,
Whether I like it or not,
I’m not who you want me to be.

I’m happy, I am,
I swear it with all my heart.
I’ve learned that to live,
you have to be ripped apart.
Because that love
is what makes you so strong inside.
And that love for you
is strong enough to abide.

But you’re broken, I see,
I know what I didn’t before.
You’re lonely and scared,
knocking down death’s door.
I went through that too,
Let me just help you now.
I know what it’s like
to be crowded alone, somehow.

But I can’t take another
step closer to you.
No matter how many stairs I fall
and what else I want to do.
You keep your distance,
and I suppose that makes most sense,
who are you to be weak from life or from love
or from ingnorance?

But Dear,
you are weak.
We all are.
So may I help?

May I rescue you?
Please, I want to save you.
Let me rescue you.
We both know no one else will.

Originally this was supposed to be a love poem. But when I realized it was about a guy friend of mine, I looked a little closer and found that it’s really more of a poem to an old friend. It’s about stopping to realize that you don’t have the deepest problems in the world, and wishing to use that to help someone you truly care about.

Write off the Ending

Someday,

I know that you’ll let me
finish our story
in the pages of another book
dedicated to you.

No babe. I won’t be letting go
that, by now you should know,
I always hold on until the very close end.

And Someday,

You’ll let me on my own,
pretend it was my fault
and read our story in the pages
of the dusty books on your shelves.

Because Someday,

You’ll be caught thinking of me,
far after our ending,
far after what’s done is
forever done.

Oh yes, Dear,

I’ve been thinking of you,
and I know what you could do
to tear me apart on the floor.
I think you know too.

But Darling,

I’m not writing our ending,
I’m not yet finished mending,
And I’m waiting for that chance to say
that I’ll never say goodbye.

Darling,

I’ll be finishing someday,
and I know that in some ways,
you don’t want our end
to tear you apart.
Yes, Dear, I know,
I’m still in your heart.

Just buried.

So No Dear,

You can’t finish that quickly,
let me finish our story,
before I write out the ending.

May I not just write it off entirely?

This poem is about letting go, or rather, the refusal to do so. I was brushing my teeth before school and listening to my iPod on full blast when “Beautiful Ending” by Barlowgirl came on (you might notice, I am for the most part inspired whenever I’m listening to music). I kind of starting thinking about things, and this is what appeared, so here I am, standing with my laptop on the dresser, frantically typing to get this out, and the bus will be here in seconds!

So, adieu for now, and hope you enjoyed!

Purity

Purity

Can I?
May I really
call this thing
purity
even if shadows
and broken dreams
that never quite
haunted me
the way they did
everyone else.
Can I call this pure?

Can I?
Dare I say
that after only
sixteen years
I know
what this purity
is, without taintation
without temptation,
without understanding
or reason,
may I say I know what love is?

This is a teen’s representation of both confusion and certainty. When you’re a kid, they say you don’t know what love is. Problem is, that’s false. You know what love is. Did you not love your mother? Your father? Of course, some have special cases with broken families, but no matter how young you were, I am certain you have loved someone once in your life.

For all of those out there that tell kids or teenagers that they don’t know what love is (and the one that told me that? You know who you are), I’d like you to tell me why you know so much about love. Because you’re older? Wrong. We know as much as you do. Sometimes, more. Love is human nature, and therefore, instinct from birth.