I was texting one of my favorite people and I remember thinking;

Show her how she makes you feel so she can be comfortable to do the same. Gosh, my crazy hair! Don't take the picture. Mmm, do it. Don't be a punk.

Yeah, my mind was flying around like a boomerang in that moment because I never show my natural hair out and wild like that. So, this was an opportunity to step out of my comfort zone. Plus, I wanted to show my favorite person that I don't like taking pictures either but I do it because it puts a smile on her face as I hope she gets more comfortable, too. :)

i'm sorry,

that you came back for me,

and that i wasn't who you were looking for,

believe me i tried to be,

i tried to act like my life was filled with sunshine and rainbows,

instead of a thunderstorm,

-i'm not the girl you met so long ago, and i can't change that

What makes me, me? Well for starters I'm not like everyone else, I don’t “go with the flow” yes we are human and sometimes I do wing it. but I am my own person.

From early life, I had a ruff upcoming. Both of my parents did drugs while I was in the house. I had moved so much that by the time I reached age five I had moved fifteen different times. When I was about six I was taken out of the house because as I said my parents did drugs. My grandmother then adopted me, at first I hated it. When I was seven my mom lost her rights to see me for if she did the police would be called. Growing up I consistently had children and youth in my life, they didn’t leave until I was about eight or nine. About two years or so I started calling my grandmom “mom”. For the longest time I hated my bio mom cause for the longest time I thought that she chose drugs over me and I wasn’t too pleased also every one of my family members told me that she chose drugs over her own blood and flesh.

When I hit thirteen I wrote my bio mom a letter and surprisingly she wrote back. When she wrote back at that time it would have been two years that I was smoking and drinking. My mom didn’t like the fact at all that I was smoking but I did it anyway I was my way of dealing with stress and stuff. Between twelve and thirteen I was a huge cutter but I got help and for a while, I was hopping around person to person trying to get help.

For now, I’m just gonna leave it at that. Hope some people can relate to this, and I hope you liked this. Drop a comment and a like if you did.

She never learned right from wrong

stealing from others, smoking

with someone, she didn't know,

or even smoking in general

was bad and she knew it, but

she didn't care

if it killed her.

People told her to stop

she never listened

no matter how many times

you told her,

she just didn't care

her friends

encouraged it.

Her parents

hated her because of it, still though

she didn't care, her parents gave her testes

she wasn't just smoking cigarettes.

She smoked whatever she could get her hands-on

or did drugs that she knew nothing about, to feel good

xanax and molly,

anything she could get

from dealer to dealer, unhealthy

drugs and used needles.

She was worthless when she had so much to live for

but, of course, she didn’t see it

she overdosed with nothing to gain and everything to lose.

Holding her hands tight, he went running into the moor. A hail of a thousand bullets whistled above their heads, but he let nothing harm her. Asking her to hide under a tree, he took a few steps forward to make sure she was safe. And a bullet came piercing his heart, a bullet she had aimed.

I was high

off the fumes

of pain

as the smoke

drifted up

from my burning flesh

mesmerized

by the way

my skin

shimmered crimson red

and then blackened

like the sky.

it became

an intoxicating

game

of rhythmic

pleasure

the hovering of

bliss

and numbness

and blistering pain.

but then

I met you

(and suddenly

the only flame

I needed

was you).

punch drunk love

is described on the internet

as a boxer who has been hit

too many times in the head

&how many times

has love knocked me down

only to get back up

&text him again

i am an all star

in this sports arena

taking each blow

like a pro

this borderline obsession

with his confusing messages -

pressing send again

a means to an end

“Mommy, can I go show my new toys to Bobby?” It was Kelly’s birthday and she was excited to show off her gifts to her favorite playmate.

“All right, sweetie,” said Kelly’s mother. “But don’t be too long. Grandma and Grandpa will be here soon for your birthday dinner.”

“Why don’t you invite Bobby to join us?” said Kelly’s momma. She, like her wife, was slightly concerned that they had never met this boy before. Especially since Kelly spent so much time with him.

Kelly had never been very good at making friends. She didn’t like to do the things that other kids liked to do. She had no interest in dollies or dressing up and, for her birthday this year, she had asked for nothing but science toys. So, when she had come home from school one day and announced that she had made a new friend, her mothers had been overjoyed.

“His name is Bobby,” Kelly had told them. “Bobby Restin.”

“Oh? And is this a boy at your school?” her momma had asked.

“No. But I met him on the way home from school and I talked to him and I said I would talk to him again tomorrow.”

“And, how old is Bobby?” asked her mother, her parental instincts piqued.

“He’s eight, same as me.”

Both mothers breathed a sigh of relief.

From then on, asking after Bobby was a regular part of the after-school repertoire in Kelly’s house.

How was school? Did you have a good day? How is Bobby?

Most days, Kelly would go see Bobby on her way home. From this, her mothers gathered that he was homeschooled. Poor Bobby probably didn’t have many playmates, so they were tolerant when Kelly’s visits lasted a little longer. She was playing with a lonely child, after all.

“Bobby doesn’t really like to go places,” said Kelly, when her momma had suggested she invite Bobby to dinner.

“Well, we’d still love to meet him,” said Kelly’s mother. But Kelly barely heard her. She was gathering up her new rock tumbler, her microscope and her book of Fascinating Animal Facts to go show Bobby.

And, with a promise to be back before dinner, Kelly was gone.

“Maybe one of us should go with her next time,” suggested Kelly’s mother. “It would give us a chance to meet Bobby’s parents.”

“Good idea,” said Kelly’s momma. “What did she say the last name was? Robbins? Rollins?”

“Restin,” said Kelly’s mother. She had remembered the name because it struck her as sort of unusual. “I think I know someone called Restin. Isn’t the manager of the fruit market a Restin?”

“Maybe. Of course, if Bobby is homeschooled, it’s possible his parents don’t get out too often either.”

“That’s true.” The discussion was interrupted by the doorbell. “Oh boy! That’s my parents. Are you ready for this?”

For the most part, the kids at school were satisfied with ignoring Kelly and, now and then, saying something mean to her as they passed her in the halls. But on the day she had met Bobby, she had been victimized by a particularly cruel bully called Francis. Kelly had found a really cool rock and she was going to take it home to see if she could look up what kind it was in one of her books. Francis had taken it, called her a freak for thinking it was cool and even flung it at the poor girl’s head when she tried to run away.

She ran further than she ever had before, her eyes streaming with tears. She ended up much further away from her school than she had ever been before. It was a very old part of town, where hardly anybody lived anymore. But, Bobby was there. His whole family were there. And, after the worst bullying shed ever experienced, talking to Bobby had made Kelly feel better.

It hadn’t stopped the bullying, of course. But at least Kelly had someone to talk to about it. she couldn’t tell her mothers because they would just call the school and get Francis in trouble…which would just get Kelly in more trouble.

Besides which, sometimes grownups don’t have time for kid stuff. Sometimes, moms have big, important stuff to deal with and they just can’t make time for the little, important stuff of childhood. Of course, when you’re little, all the stuff seems like big stuff, which is why it can be so difficult for kids to understand when grownups say they’re too busy.

But Bobby was always there. Bobby always listened. Bobby was a real friend.

So, on the day of her ninth birthday, her arms full of all her wonderful birthday presents, Kelly climbed the hill on the far side of town and dropped to her knees at the familiar site which told her she had reached her favorite friend.

“Hi, Bobby!” said Kelly to the broken stone sticking up out of the ground. She reached out and touched the stone, wondering if Bobby could feel it, and read the words which had almost totally eroded away:

HERE LIES

BOBBY

REST IN

(1892-1900)

The rest of Bobby’s family were buried on this hill, too, but their stones had long since withered away. Only gray, moss-covered lumps remained to mark the spots where Bobby’s relatives were resting.

Kelly showed Bobby all of her cool new stuff and read to him a little from her book of Fascinating Animal Facts. Like the fact that elephants are one of the few species besides humans to formally mourn and bury their dead (she thought he would like that one).

But, she couldn’t stay long. Soon, she was gathering up her things and saying goodbye.

It was always the hardest part of Kelly’s day. Saying goodbye to Bobby.

THE END

This is not part of a larger work. It's just a short sample of the kind of writing I do. I have lots of stories in just about all genres and styles. Comic, tragic, science fiction, romantic, westerns, fairy tales, thrillers and poems. Sometimes they come out as kids stories, sometimes they don't. But I never know which they're going to be until I'm done.

For more information and links to some of my stories/poems, visit sixtysomethingtrees.com.

BIO: I was born in California, currently live in Louisville, but I consider Disneyland to be my hometown. I started writing because I watched Shakespeare In Love and I thought it would help me get girls. By the time I realized how wrong I was, I found I wasn't actually good at anything else, so I just kept at it. Since then, I have written plays, novels, short stories, poems, essays, kids books and angry Facebook rants. In addition to many self-published volumes, my work has appeared in magazines, anthologies and on various websites. My hobbies include pizza and naps and my turnoffs include manual labor and institutionalized racism.