Many emotions surpass his beautiful features,
But the same sharp look lingers in his alluring amber irises:
Fire.
And if I'm not careful,
He might burn me too. 
 

I saw him first.
Standing a few feet away
With his bleach blonde hair and beautiful blue eyes,
Taunting me.
My lips parted as my mouth hung open in awe.
What a breathtaking work of art.
He must have felt my eyes and turned towards me.
I looked away quickly.
Someone with as many flaws as myself does not deserve a masterpiece.
Although that's not what he seemed to think.
For the rest of the day he tried persuading me into making eye contact with him.
I wouldn't budge.
Because I knew if I did,
He's see everything.
Every tear, every smile, 
All of it.
And that's exactly what he wanted.
His efforts were good, I'll give him that,
But it didn't feel like the right time.
So I promised I'd see him again
Which seemed to satisfy him.
A few weeks later we walked by the water that resembled his eyes.
It left me speechless.
He greeted me with a smile and a sunflower,

Pink, red, orange, yellow
bleed into my mind,
and seep into my veins,
like watercolors.
I am an array of colors and life.
No, wait.
I am a void.
Blackness fill my soul.
And the colors,
their vibrancy,
vanish.
 

I sit beneath this willow tree,
praying.
Praying that one day,
I will have the strength and courage,
to live as long as this willow tree.
The cracks in its bark
resemble scars on my skin.
We have been through so much,
and I'm sure we both know
that there is so much more to be done;
to,
and by us.
 

(This is a poem I wrote about a toxic person that I no longer have in my life, enjoy)
 
His eyes were razors that slashed through my skin whenever they landed on me.
Even the thought of his gaze was enough to cut me into pieces.
And I loved it.
The pain he caused me was enough to make me feel alive
So I allowed him to hurt me,
Constantly, over and over.
He was in my head,
my heart,
I felt him course through my veins.
And he's still there.
By that I do not mean the memories we shared,
Oh no no,
The feeling of his arms slithering around my waist so he could kiss me has been burned into my body and mind.
I will constantly be reminded of him whenever the smell of cigarrettes and cinnamon contaminate my nostrils.
And I will never forget the real reason I started failing French last semester.

This is a little story I wrote for a class that I had to tell a Moth Story in, so here it is.

Regret.

It’s kind of funny when you think about it.

The fact that this one little word has so much emotion packed into it,

And not the good kind either.

It was November of last year, I came into work at the usual 4:35 for my 5:00 shift, but something seemed different about today.

I was startled to see a boy, around my age, that I’ve never seen before, sitting in the chair we use to take breaks.

I froze immediately, then tried to back up slowly so I wouldn’t have to actually talk to this boy, but he looked up and I was caught.

We took our time analyzing each other; he had curly brown hair, bushy eyebrows, and was dressed like he definitely wasn’t working at Journeys: with grey Toms, black jeans, and a white button up.

They tell us not to be angry,
to push our feelings down and away
where they cannot be seen. 
Because in order to survive in this world,
you should not express yourself.
But there is so much to be angry about!
So do not sit there and tell me my feelings are invalid,
It will give me more of a reason to shout.


 

I know now,
he's gone for
good this time.

The world needs
to wake up
right about now.

Where should I
go from here?
I don't know.

Here, have a 
virtual hug from
your local dork.

 

I'm in math
class just simply
writing some poetry.

Who knows where
we'll be five
years from now.

Our eyes locked,
my breath hitched,
I'm in love.

(More to come soon, I really like this).
 

These are just thoughts that have flowed in and out of my head for the past few days.

I want to feel alive.
But at the same time, I'm terrified of living.
It's like I'm split in half.
And each side is just pulling, 
Trying desperately to get me to commit to it fully.
I can't.
I want to be this great best selling author,
Yet there is this voice in my head,
telling me,
You're never going to make it.
Especially when it comes to money.
Just give up.
Quit already.
You aren't even good.
And some days I believe it,
Some days I don't.
I just think I'm going to have to deal with it,
Until I make it.