The Taste

You know how water only has a taste if it is different from what you normally drink? This is my life and I am finally tasting the water.

Crying Wolf

Do you live to write?  Or was that just a phase? Do you not remember the days that all you spoke in your brain was poetry? Or how you could captivate your reader by just speaking your mind? Or how when you read the poetry of random people you felt their pain?

Oh, but I Know you remember the day you told yourself that you didn't need poetry anymore. The day that you told yourself that you could use Dancing as an emotional outlet and get the same lasting release as with poetry. Ha, what a lie. Yes, Dancing made you feel good but, it would just cause you anxiety until you had your next fix. You put on a good show though you had yourself convinced for a good three weeks. But now look where we are. Sitting here in front of a keyboard...

I welcome you back, even though I resent that you ever left in the first place. I'm glad dancing was just a phase.

Do you remember that day that you stop writing? Oh, wait that never happened...

Things I Have Feared to Read

Things I Have Feared to Read

l have always been able to do it. To avoid thoughts that need to be heard. Words that have been written long ago but have been refused a voice. A sound that threatens the smile on my face. Phrases that take my crutches away before I can fully walk on my own. These contemplations that expound on the reasons I should hide. This place that made it so I had no need for comfort foods, therapy, or a friend to talk too. The space which judges turn their signs around to reveal perfect tens for signs of depression. This frame of mind that explains the pains of lack of motivation. And images that should have taken my breath away but made me intake a paradox that isnt so different. This the chamber that has taken all of my grieves and unwanted thoughts has found itself too full. And beckons me (with in a persuasive tone) to unlatch its deteriorating pad lock. 

i and you

i once ask you to be the real you, you gave it to me for a few days and let me hold it, but then i felt you start to recoil, so i did my best to hold on to it as long as i could but then you started to fight back because you didnt trust me anymore and as i held on you started to burn me, and at first i thought that the pain was worth it and that the boils that where forming on my hands would be easier to bare then a heart extinguished, and once i let go of you because the resistance was too great i look at my hands and saw what holding on to you had done to me and i fought back, i used poison where you had used flames, leaving scars for my boils, but all those boils did was cause me pain when i later tried to touch other hearts that could use some piecing back together, and not only did my heart hurt i couldnt reach out for help because i feared the pain that would be caused by someone grabbing my hand.

My blog...

My Blog is not die..






















Just going though rehab

My Family

My mother always told me that I wasn't going to change until I hit rock bottom. I told her that I would figure it out before I got the cuts and bruises. It always seems like she loves the looks of the new scars.

My best friend told me that he was going to fake it till he makes it. I told him that he really shouldn't do that. He asked why not and I refused to answer. I didn't want to tell him that I would be straight if I still lived that way today.

My brother told me that I had cross a line when I didn't show to my own Court of Honer. He didnt realize that this was are first conversation that wasn't about video games or Christmas presents in a two years.

My dad wants to mend are relationship but yesterday he told me he loved me and I replied with a hollow " I love you too".

My sister told me that we would be the best of buds when she comes home from her mission. It sounds nice and all but I'm planning on dispersing for a year.

My little brother tells me that he is sorry. Yet the rage he had was what he truly feels about me. And living with him its hard not to just think he might break my leg like he was about to that night my parents had to intervene.

My younger sister knows my secret but doesn't seem to care. Yet she still voices her hate for people like me.

My mother keeps trying to tell me that I care for them. But the things she keeps pointing out are the things I would do for random strangers.