Left OutShe's left out to follow the opposite of begettingShe's somewhat depressed, somewhat deflectedBut possibly willing to change reflectionsI don't know myself but what I do know is thatShe's so shy, so awry, but possibly willing to flyBut it's hard to try when all her surroundingsAre all that's on her mind along with herselfSomething in her dying and fading awayYet, the days that went blind in a wayNow she's sighing, supplying her days with the flying nightBut in many ways, I think she's sensing great emphasisAll while she aspirates through out the dayBut she's left out and facing today without a handNext to her seconds, her days are become sectionsNow that the dusk met the dustI feel like every other thought of hers becomes syntheticAs she hears someone is gonna end up here, sympatheticallyShe's left out but some surveillance is her salvationHelp is all th
(Don't) Reach For ItThere is demise in front of you todayPlease, for me, don't reach for it nowYou're not filled with barren passionsYou have this day, you have yesterdayYou even have me on your enthusiasmMy unfallen compassion had always beenReaching your unfallen attraction anywaysAfter all, I've always had a bleeding heartI still see you standing there staring atChosen despairs so where are you reallyGoing with the tears that do bear wings?Is it because your conceptions mayBe becoming your new perception?Either way, I'm here, she's here, he's hereAnd your motives are here so if you needSome help getting through what you endUp with, someone is open to offer youSome of their moments to hear your chimesNo matter what, many wo
To ShyI may not have social anxiety butThe shyness inside has me (once again)The shyness inside got me (like every other time)It's when I want to met you in personBut this shyness has me again (please let me go)Friends are awaiting my arrivalAn angel is out there waiting for me(I wish I wasn't so shy)Why am I so shy?I can be a good guyUnless you talk to me, I can be so quietI can be a peaceful guyThen again, I can be so quietI always wanted to talk to you but I guess I'm just to shyWhy...Why am I so shy?I guess I'm that just to shy but then again, I'm not fully sureThis feeling has gotten to me again every time IWant go talk to someone that I really don't know so wellI know me but why am I so shy? (so shy just to go talk to you?)Inside, I don't know why I am shyMaybe I'm so use being quiet or maybe it's just that I'mNot use to talking to others and it leads me to waitJust to get a chance to talk to you in person
Our Own LevelI have come a long way, I have gotten farBy now, I have done so muchI have made decisions of both sidesBut I'm starting to realize thatNo one on this Earth is pitch perfectHowever, we're all smart on our own levelWhether I'm right, whether I'm wrongWhether your a girl with blonde hair or a guy with black hairIt's what's on the inside that countsYour smart at your own level, you think at your own levelWe all get information at our own pasteWe all learn differently so don't feel alone if you don't get info that fastWe smart at our own level, no one is pitch perfect eitherEven I'm not all that perfect but I'm learning at my own rateI get stuff right and wrong to so your not aloneIf you give a piece of your time to peacePeace will help you even moreFrom peace, I've already picked a sideBut it's up to you to choose which sideYou want to really be on because it's not up to meWhat can do though is help youJust tell me who you wanna beTe
Bullies (I Never Liked) - Free VerseI hate to see one cry over heartless wordsThe bullies dismayed the young men (the young women)When I hear this (when I see this)It splits my heart into two piecesOne half is from sorrow that another causedAnd the other half is what's left of my calm sideHey bullies, let me ask you somethingWant to know what make's me sad?Watching girl's cry because of being bulliedWant to know what make's me sad?Watching men tear up themselves because of being bullied
Writing Is My PassionI started putting words down on a paperNot to many years ago from nowNot to long after that, it started to become apart of meIt became a habit to write what caught my interestNow look at me today, writing is one of my passion'sAnd I am starting to hear I am talented for what I write(And for everything else I do, is something many people like to)Writing is my passion but it's not all I doI keep writing not only to impress othersBut I keep writing to express how I feel(Or how another feels)I can't stop playing with wordsIt's just me to keep doing thisBecause when I have a line in my mindI put it down somewhere so I don't forget itI hold the pen, I hold the thoughts I getWhere are you at?If you ask me, I'm just messing' around with words(I'm just messing' around with rhymes)Don't ask me to stop hereI can't stop now, I'm already into writing (and everything else I'm into)Because if you take this away, you've taken apart of me off the wallTo bad I can't stop now s
Letters to the PastTo my 24...You're starting to understandThere's maybe such a thingAs happy endingsTo my 21...The world has changed for youBut I promise I'll be hereTo pick up the piecesTo my 18...You're stronger than you thinkAnd the fallacy you live inNeeds to breakTo my 15...Please don't hate yourselfYou're right to think you're differentJust be patientTo my 12...I know you're brokenYou can't cry nowBut someday you willTo my 9...Even now so awkwardLife is one big puzzle boardYou're just not meant to fixTo my 6...So brave you standI'm ever proud of youRefusing to submitTo my 3...I don't have wordsTime won't bring her backBut she'll never leave youI'm 26 next monthI wonder what lettersI'd get back
MundaneI fell in love too easily:I fell for the stars.I fell for the sky.I fell for brown eyes.I want the boring things:To wear pajamas all day.To build a pillow fort.To wake up in someone's arms.I like the mundane:The feel of rain.The taste of honey.The smell of lilies. But reallyI fell for all the right things.Nothing is truly boring.And "mundane" is just another wordfor "under appreciated".
a 500 mile dashOh feeble heart, don't stopI only need a momentto catch my breath. Theincessant rise and fallof my chest is almostas exhausting as knowingI've got years more of thisoxygen-laced race to run.
Papers and Cake Roses were a curious flower, rife with symbolic meaning yet rarely understood. Thorns and blossoms forming an artistic counterpoint, Lyra ceased fussing with the arrangement and finally turned up her face to acknowledge her tutor. It was a rare concession, but she’d grown bored with the basic exercises she’d already done and knew he wouldn't let her advance if she didn't listen to him drone on about what was next. Oddly, he made no move to launch into one of his speeches, and after a moment she realized he hadn't paid her any attention as she ignored him. “Sir.” Lyra felt no shame or irony at the reprimand in her voice. Her parents paid him good money; it was his duty to sit and allow her to torment him. Vexingly, he didn't so much as look up, and instead continued writing something in the slim notebook he always carried with him. She'd thought it was to take down his reports on her progress but judging fr
Snow-girlShe is ice-cold, my snow-girl. Ice-cold, and snow-white, as beautiful as the frost-rimed spiderswebs lacing our tree. Ice-cold.I wrapped her in my coat - see? - but still she holds the Winter in her heart, clings to the ice and the snow and the frost and the steel-surgical-blue of the sky, blue as her eyes (roll back her eyelids, see for yourself. As blue as betrayal, my snow-girl's eyes), and she will not warm herself, no, not for all my asking.I wrapped her in my coat, and I wound my scarf around her neck three times (you see? Three. Three is lucky. Three threes is magic, but my scarf is not that long), but still she holds the ice and the snow and the frost at the heart of her and she will not warm herself, no, not for all my pleading.I wrapped her in my coat, and I wound my scarf around her neck, and I covered her feet (you see? Such tiny feet, my snow-girl has. So small. Like doll's feet, china-white), but still she holds the Winter in the heart of her, and she will not wake and
Devious Journal EntryIf you don't care: stop reading.If you would come to my funeral: favorite this.If you miss me: comment a heart.If you're not scared: Re-post and see who your "Real friends" are.