no 11:11 wishinghey say he likes her,
and shes cant help pray
that they were right.
his eyes are like
the months between summer and autumn,
specks of green hidden behind a gentle brown.
and his voice seems to melt even her heart.
she doesnt want to love him.
but she cant help herself
and she cant help hoping
that someday he will want her back.
she may hope yes,
but she will never let herself wish
because her wishes seem to get lost
on their way to heaven.
so tonight she will go to bed before 11:11
and HOPE that one day...
he will love her too.
Beauty is,Beauty is a sunflower patch reaching towards the sky.Beauty is,5 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
The first moment you realize you're in love.
Beauty is the innocent look on a child's face.
The second you get results that you are now cancer free.
Beauty is being color blind in a world full of racism.
The song playing on the radio bringing you to tears.
Beauty is any form of art.
The person talking you out of suicide.
Beauty is the rain curing the ground from dehydration.
The man who pays for your lunch out of pure kindness.
Beauty is the devotion of our soldiers.
The heart of a surgeon saving all those lives.
Beauty is the girl who has a purse filled with spongebob band aids.
The parent who never gives up.
Beauty is everywhere.
The feeling of hope.
Not a trendI don't understandNot a trend5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Why people treat this
Like it's a trend
Who would want these curses?
All kinds of problems
These mental issues
Kindly explain to me why you think
Feeling like your mind is running on speed with no breaks
Never having a moments peace, always having SOMETHING on your mind
Constantly lacking enough sleep because you can't get your mind to stop
The everyday headaches and pounding
Not being able to fully focus on one thing at a time
Worrying about things that will happen the next day, next week, next year
This is not a trend
This is not fake
This is a real disease I must manage everyday
So stop faking
Stop acting like it's the new thing to do
Because you have no clue what it's really like
my fireflyshe breathes inmy firefly5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and tries to trap the
in her palms-
(crying when they
slither through her fingers)
she closes her eyes but lets
the moonlight bleed through,
trusting her eyelids to filter out
How can I not miss this?How can there be a friendship with no trust?How can I not miss this?5 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
How can you say you care for someone when you won't even reply?
How will they know you want to listen?
How will they know you still worry about them?
I'm pretty sure you gave up.
I guess I'll have to accept that...
I could still use a friend like you,
In the past you helped me a lot.
I miss our old conversations,
I miss talking about nothing.
I miss seeing your face on skype,
And I miss knowing I was one of your best friends.
I thought we said the distance couldn't change our friendship...
That it didn't matter where I lived.
You'd at least always be my friend...
If not, something more.
I still care about you in many ways,
A million to be exact.
It's a friendship that won't die in my heart,
A memory that will never end.
How can I stop worrying?
How can I cope?
How do I know you are still even reading?
How do I know any of this?
try to know me.if you want to know me, you have to read my words.try to know me.5 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
you have to let yourself slip into the sometimes boiling water of my ideas and let them blister and scar your skin. you have to touch the angry wounds and understand the serrated edges that placed them there. you see, i am more than syllables and more than vowels, but to understand the cracking of my spine, you have to decipher the noise that it makes on the way down. you have to close your eyes and listen to my soft-throated whine and listen to my blood-vessel-popping scream and understand the howls of joy that spiral up my chest from the shrapnel of my very stomach.
you must take the time to understand each of these separate noises and understand the source of the words comes not from inspiration and not from ideas but from emotions that bleed red down my arms to the calloused fingers that hold this pen. you have to trust that i am not writing from false and vivid imagination, and you must understand that each flawed sentence and eac