My Favorite ListMy Favorite List
hang out at driscoll more
skate around holding hands without seth holding onto the wall-
go to homecoming dance together-
meet maggies mom-
dress up like super heroes and walk around together-
watch mythbusters on my bed-
go to the movies together-
go to a park and hang out-
share a sweatshirt-
dance with her-
maggie straightens seths hair-
play halo together-
go to the beach together-
surprise first kiss for madeline-
disney movie night-
harry potter marathon-
take alot of pictures-
make a big collage with the pictures-
watch nightmare before christmas together-
dragon ball z, end of story-
build a fort and hide in it-
eat ice cream in the winter-
maggie feels my muscles-
Hang out more-
::skate without holding wall,have madeline fall on seth or next to him
hang out alone-
go into bathroom at driscoll and pretend were doing things XD-
have a sleep over-
walk in the rain hold
Why am i so happy today of all days?
Normally if death was offered up i would welcome it
But today, a freezing cold,snowy day,
I feel so good, elevated, patient, kinder
Why today? The same as any other day
Have you ever seen the matrix?
Maybe thats the truth. what if life is just a product of our imaginations?
That means thought itself would be an impossible thing. an endless infinite cycle of impossibility's. what if there really isnt anything? this thing were in is just here?
a single entity controls it all? all our friends,loved ones, random people, what if theyre all fake? does that mean we inflict pain upon ourselves when we get hurt?
is this all jsut existential non sense? who will ever know?
For those who are teasedPity those
who throw knives
at your back,
and they're left
with porcelain skin,
and broken knives.
he saved me, but he killed me.
i. first light- i met you in a crimson forest.
it was a rose garden summer, and out of a black mercedes
you walked out, your five year old eyes greener than
you reached up to pluck a rose from its stem, and offered it to me.
"what's your name?"
daddy told me that i couldn't tell strangers my real name.
I looked at the rose in my hand.
you smiled, you were a seastorm of now long-gone innocence.
i didn't understand
but I knew.
ii. i forgot about you for
1562 days, 11 hours, and 22 minutes,
my name, but i didn't recognize you
until i saw your eyes.
iii. my father fell and didn't stand back up again.
i screamed, and you carried me home.
iv. i didn't talk for a week.
i stared at the gray of the sky. it was the color of my father's eyes.
you sat next to me in the pouring rain,
Ugly Scars“Why do you cut, dear?”
“Doesn’t it hurt?”
Of course it does –
It hurts more than I’m worth
“Why do you cut, dear?”
“Aren’t you ashamed?”
Of course I’m embarrassed,
But I’m used to the blame.
“Why do you cut, dear?”
“Why don’t you stop?”
Can you stop a dead body
From starting to rot?
Because, darling, you see,
I’m not even here.
I’m only a corpse
With no hope, and no fear.
“Why do you cut dear?”
Well, don’t you see?
There’s a pain inside
So deep within me
And it’s coming to the surface
But no one understands
So I put that pain
Inside my hands.
And I lay it out
For all to see
On wrists so red
And forearms that bleed.
“Why do you cut, dear?”
“It’s ugly, you know.”
“ugly” is exactly
What this is meant
Anxiety attackAs the attack begins,
I feel myself slipping away again.
And I question things that are better left unsaid.
And contemplate if I am better off dead.
My anxiety is killing me,
I feel my hands shaking.
And I am sobbing.
And am I dying?
I am just trying,
To get a grip.
But I feel my reality slip through my finger tips.
Nothing is real,
Except every bit of pain my mind forces me to feel.
Every memory that I had shoved away.
Is now racing around my brain.
It's driving me insane.
And my limbs turn to jello.
Every time my head hits the pillow,
Before I go to bed.
I start to panic and I am wide awake instead.
More thoughts are swarming around like a hurricane.
Make it stop!
And just like that,
The attack is gone.
Self-Harm Isn't a HandbagPick at the scabs of the ghosts of scars
On the insides of my wrists,
White hot pain memories shoot up my veins
And the tear vapour creates mists
In the lenses of my glasses.
My world narrows down to those
White stitch marks that keep the
Patchwork of my forearms and thighs
Keeping the dark ugly hurt
On the insides
How could I have done this to myself?
Could I blame you?
And her too?
I’m a big girl now,
And the blame rests on my wrists,
That flicked the blade
And sprayed the blood,
And the mind that forbade
Me to ask for help.
I’ve said it before
And I’ll say it again;
It isn’t beautiful
To put yourself through such pain.
When your head is buzzing
From the hit of the high
Of a new cut on your thigh,
Or your mind is lost in a mist
Of ecstasy from a new slice
On your wrist
And you’re dependent on it
A junkie needing a hit,
It isn’t pretty or cute or special.
No amount of kisses
Will undo the cuts
Or absorb the scars.
BipolarThere's that moment when I wake up in the morning,
And without a warning.
I feel myself plunge into the ocean.
As my thoughts drown me,
Like anchors tied to my ankles.
And I feel the water all around me.
I am being consumed by the sea,
My mind is my own worst enemy.
There's that moment when I wake up in the morning,
And I get that feeling.
In my chest,
But it's not pain.
I feel like I am actually sane.
Or maybe a little more than that,
I feel creativity and happiness,
And just plain joy.
I can't describe this emotion,
I just know that I actually feel alive.
Maybe even more than that.
And I can laugh and I am okay.
But then there is the next day.
And the next,
Until it all goes away.
And then I am neutral.
I am not manic.
I am not depressed.
I am not anything.
I feel bored, irritated.
I don't know what I am.
Just plain, nothingness.
I don't feel creativity flow through my finger tips,
I feel this might be a sinking ship,
Fades to the next hour or so.
And I am once aga
God's PaintbrushI've learned that God's paintbrush is incredibly flawed,
with lashes picked at, and bristles torn nearly off.
I don't think everybody likes what God paints,
because we're always trying to smear it away.
We cut off a few pounds, or cut up some skin,
when we soil the paper, we throw it in the trash bin.
I think His paper has been sauntered with tears,
or blood, and vulgar language from our peers.
Like others have taken His brush and dipped it in oil,
and have painted themselves, in a way that's soiled.
I knew that God's paintbrush was incredibly flawed,
but that doesn't mean that we should change it at all.
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” they say,
perhaps it would be better to keep it that way.
I'm incredibly certain that God makes no mistake,
I think that we do, when we try to be fake.
When we take His art into our own hands,
and when we ruin the strokes that He carefully commands.
I don't really think that God wants us to be perfect,
if so, then He wouldn't take th
concrete doesn't exist without waterwe dream about the nights
where your head is resting
against my chest,
with blankets sprawled,
our legs intertwined
you right hand locked
with my left,
and my right hand
placed on your lower back.
and while i see these things
in my sleep,
i lie awake imagining
the fragile moments too.
not your cliche
but when i say something
without thinking and it hits
you in the place where i swore
i’d protect with my life.
when i say something
that means the world to me
and it’s nothing
but a scoff for you.
when someone’s loved one
finally meets meta
and we have to be there
still dealing with the physical.
i think of those moments
far too often
and how we’d handle
them when we’re just strong
enough to be fragile.
simplicity is intentional
and humanism is concrete
until life hits
and it isn’t what you imagined.
Why does such a commonplace thing bother so many people?
Why do we mourn those who died instead of celebrating them?
Why does death upset everyone but me?
One person of trillions is almost completely worthless in society,
So why let death bother you, does it really make you feel better?
I dont understand.