i laid down on the

cold, hard, dusty floor.

no, not metaphorically

i'm laying on the floor

motionless and stiff.

i suppose i thought

doing this would relieve

the weight crushing me.

no, i mean the literal weight

that is pulling me down.

maybe i'm laying here

because i think that it's

almost poetic in a sense.

the tortured writer gives

up all hope and collapses.

“What are you doing?”

“Wah, sure.”

“What? Were you paying attention? That wasn't the question.”

“What? Er...sorry, I've been distracted”

“What? You're stoned. Cut this out and stop this mad habit.”

“Woo! Cured!”

How Chipmunk Got His Stripes.

You may think this is a joke, but it is truly not. It's the first book I read that I fell in love with. My mom would read it to me every night when I was four. It is what launched my love for reading, and that is invaluable.

I accredit my success in elementary school and beyond to this passion for books. I always read at a higher level than my peers and I always had a book in my hands, arguably too much.

There is so much that can be learned from books and the diversity is astounding. Pick up a science fiction novel and you will end up learning about philosophy, anything is possible.

Although I hardly remember the contents of How Chipmunk Got His Stripes, it has still revolutionized my life, and I am grateful.

my dear, i love you very much, but please let me go. god i loved you—love you, but you deserve so much more than i can offer. you deserve a girl with diamonds on her wrist, instead of scars that have not healed. you deserve a girl who has fire in her eyes, instead of one who has a face like thunder. you deserve a girl who can write a beautiful poem about leaving their one love, instead of whatever this is. i'm sorry i cannot be what you need. the only thing i have to offer is love; that is not enough. you will not see me anymore and i will try to forget. you should too. you will be a forgotten dream, and i will be a forgotten nightmare. please don't remember this. just know that i have tried so hard to do right.

Read 12:15 AM

roses are red

“i love you” he said

violets are blue

god, i love you too

roses are red

i'm losing my head

violets are blue

why won't you just step into my shoe?

roses are red

i am dead

violets are blue

you'll find someone new

the gentle kisses that

trail down my stomach

and the soft tingling

feeling where you left

your marks of love.

the delicate laughs that

echo through my room

and the smile that i

swear i will never forget.

the way your voice sounds

when you tremble the

words “i love you” slip

out right before i moan.

after all of this, i still ask:

why me?

and boys cry,

doesn't everyone?

fearing gross hormones.

i just know locked men

never open past quickly rushed sobs.

they undergo violently wild xerosis.

young zanies.

To be fucked is to be loved, maybe lusted. “I get fucked by him every Thursday.” To be fucked is also to be high, or intoxicated. “We got fucked up last Thursday.” To be fucked could possible mean to be in trouble, or troubled. “I think I'm falling for him... I'm fucked.” Of course, you can always add the word “over” to that statement, and it can turn into heartbreaking poetry. “He fucked me over good. Pulled me in close, made sure I had hearts in my eyes and saw stars in his. Then he left.”