I, myself

I don't know

If you're able to tell

But I,

I'm just barely a

Teenager

13 less than 5 months ago

I'm in what you'd call

The "Gifted" Program

Just to tell me

I'm smart,

Which seems like a load of

Crap to me

We're all smart

Next year, I'll be

Taking advanced courses at the

high school

9th grade work for a 7th/8th grader

Fun times

But...

Math,

Science,

History,

Art,

They're all okay

But writing,

Writing is what I love

I think my

Innocence helps

But sometimes I feel

Like I'm 13,

Going on 73.

I know they say the world

Isn't black and white

There are grays

But I see the world in color

I have my opinions

I try to voice them

While seeing the other side

I get along with most

Hardly anyone who dislikes me

That I know of

And if you hate me,

Well, that's okay.

I don't hate you,

I just know,

That sometimes everyone can't love me.

But my writing,

I like to think I write with

A new view

An open view

With innocence

But wisdom

As well

And that's just how I think of

Myself.

Wood

Masked in yellow

A middle hollowed out

Then filled again

Pink glued to the top

As a cute little hat

Marks

Made again

And then they're gone

And back

Like the thoughts

That are they

Are expressing

The

Tissues

Used again

Crumpled and thrown

Away to decay

They

Are the

Only thing

You can rely

On to soak up tears

They

Never

Will judge you

But instead they

Stay as they are used

Twirling and

Whirling

Blossoming all around

Pastels

And

Vibrant colors

Red, oranges, fiery tones

Icy blues and violets

Thorny stems

Some all too trusting

Leaves of all shapes

And sizes

Flowers attracting

Others

Changing the world

For worse or better

Some are alluring

Some happy

Some snappy

Some dying

But, they are all flowers

And all flowers

Should be

Equal

My heart was broken,

Shattered into pieces

A heart now turned cold

Instead of the warmth

It once held

Once broken

Now livid

I let my anger go

I am one with the fire

Deep inside the icy black coal

I open my chambers

I let the emotions flow

My chambers hold what is inside

My deepest feelings will arise

Into the cold, cruel world

Roses are red

You'll be dead

Violets are blue

Remember I'm always watching you

Roses are red

I'm gonna stomp on your head

Violets are blue

I'm gonna kill you

Roses are red

You'll soon be dead

Violets are blue

I have to take care of you

The door was open, and they looked out. The night was stormy, and rain was pouring down. On both porches of a street abandoned by cars, two heads peeked out. The light from the hallway illuminated the blonde hair cascading down her shoulders. His dark brown hair was outlined as his head poked out the door. They saw each other.

She was surprised. Why was he up? He usually went to sleep no later than 11:00. She would know, after all. She had loved him for many years, but he never spoke of it.

He was worried. He knew she loved him. But, he didn't want to let love in. Not again. It would only leave him devastated.

They went out to find more. More about each other. He tried to turn it into a friendly outing with a neighbor, but she truly believed it was a date. She grew to enjoy his company more and more with each day, and he, grudgingly, did, as well.

He finally asked her out on a real date, and she accepted, of course. They found that they were perfectly compatible. She knew him like the back of her hand, and he thought being around her was like wearing a pair of your favorite jeans.

She crept into his room one night, after she had stayed the night. She wanted to know why he was so reluctant to open his heart, to share his worries. Why it took all her warmth to melt his frosty exterior. Why, even as she tried to get close to him, and it seemed as though she was, he always pulled away with a guilty look in his eyes, from his soul. She wanted answers. She wanted his heart. Fully.

The door creaked slightly, and she cringed. She waited a few seconds before quietly making her way into his room so she could scour it for clues. She looked in every nook and cranny. She found dirty socks, dusty books, and extra blankets, but no clues. She searched the bathroom joined to his room, but, again, found nothing of interest. She snuck back into his room for one final once over. She noticed that she forgot to look in his nightstand. She pulled the drawer open, and found a box. She carefully lifted the lid of the box. She gasped. Two rings were inside. One had his initials on it, and the other, a diamond and some initials she was unfamiliar with. All the pieces came together in her mind. She placed the box back, and turned to make her way out the door, but instead, she saw him, leaning against the doorframe.

Your tears fall

on the asphalt of

the parking lot

Your years show

Your makeup running,

dripping off

The storm of your emotions,

uncorked

As you fold under the

grey skies

and wonder

where it all went wrong

This week has been... as normal as it can be. It consisted of final soccer games, absent friends, teachers eating skittles, lagging in math class, an idiot pulling the fire alarm, guys poking me, and quite a bit of face paint and mint gum. School is stressful, let me tell you. Overall, there isn't much I'd change. At the moment, things can be pressuring and hectic, but looking back on it, it wasn't that bad. It's almost Friday, though, thank goodness.

Thinking. It's funny thing, isn't it? I think, then I type it here. Or maybe I type it here, then think. Editing? Only afterwards, not during. Well, when I begin thinking, it's like a train. One thing leads to the next, and eventually my thoughts end up somewhere, and I wonder how they got there. Like riding the bus in the mornings. I sit for 20 minutes and listen to music, and suddenly, I'm at my destination. It feels as though the ride goes too quickly. Like life, I suppose. If you think about it, you have 100 years, or, most likely, less, to make a difference in this world. And then you're gone. It's a peculiar thing to think about. Death. When you won't be able to do anything anymore. No eating, writing, reading. Or maybe there is. That's why death scares humanity. We don't know and we probably won't be able to figure out what death is like. And that scares us. The unknown. Like the only depths of the ocean, where we can't see, and don't know what is below. Inky depths. Like the night sky right now. Well, it has become later than I expected. And somehow this post went from thinking about thinking to how dark it is outside. This is what happens when I think.