So, I wrote a poem for the first time in about five years.

Secrets
The burden of my secrets is weighing me down;
holding me underneath a sea of lies.
My secrets wish to be free;
they wish to fly.
But it’s like bile rising from the pits.
It will run freely among the flowers,
or remain trapped in its gehenna.
My mouth is the door, but I’ve yet to find the key.
The secrets are right at the surface screaming, “Free me!”
But the trap door remains locked.
It is a trap because other captives fall into the pit unwillingly.
The burden is Hell.
It is pain.
It is fear.
They long to be free.
They long to be recognized.
But their captor, their ringmaster, their devil, their Queen…
This master is sadistic.
Unknowing.
It will never let them through the door.

They will never be free.
I will never be free.

Leukemia Awareness

Shiiiiiiit.
All these entires are mighty old.
o.O

Well, other than the Watermelon Balls.

Just so you know: this is not meant to be serious. m'kay. :]

Watermelon Balls

Today is December 22, 2005.
Roseanne is on the television.
It is 12:06; a.m.
Tomorrow, I will be sixteen.
In six days, I will get my license.
Rather, I will try.
In seven days, I'm going to Texas.
For five days.
On January 3, I will be back.

When you're with me, I can't breathe.
When you're near me, I can't see.
When you say that you don't love me, I can't be.

Don't you know that you're my weakness.
No matter how I try, I cannot stop this.
Don't you know that you're my happiness.
Please don't stop this.

I can't help but to love you.
You give me every reason in the world to.
I can't help but to need you.
Without your love, what can I do?

I wish I could bring you back. My eyes are burning with the thought of you. My heart pounds, as if it will burst from my chest. I lie awake at night sometimes, talking to myself about you. I cry myself to sleep on these nights. I can't help but to wonder how it would be to hold you every day. To teach you things, be a role model. I miss you, I love you. I will always love you. There is a neverending space for you in my heart. But, I can't stop the pain. It hurts me so much to know we'll never meet again. To know the only time I see you is in my dreams. To wonder if you would love me as I love you. This is the tale of a sister. A sister in pain. Living everday in grief. In pain. A sister who cannot be a sister at all. But, can only dream of how things could have been.

Thank you, dear, for opening my eyes. Helping me see that inner beauty apparently isn't enough. The society concetrates so much on outer beauty that there are hardly any really beautiful people at all. Why is beauty based on physical appearance alone ? Appearance isn't what it's about. It's about mind, spirit, soul and heart. There are so many people who have hearts like no other, souls like no other, but no one sees it because they're not beautiful. No one is perfect, no one will ever be perfect. This is because standards have become so high. If people could look at inner beauty instead of outer beauty alone, we would be much happier. Falling truly, deeply, and madly in love wouldn't be so rare and almost impossible to do. Thank you, dear, for helping me see that it doesn't matter how much inner beauty lies within me. Helping me realize that I will never be good enough for you.

You mean everything to me. You're my heart, my soul. You'll be the death of me, it's true. What will kill me is my love for you. My neverending love. Believe me, it's just that. It will drive me to insanity, drive me into the ground. I'll eat dirt, I will. I'LL EAT DIRT. But I won't care. What a way to go, what a way to go. My love will be the death of me. But, die happy, I will. Love; such a great thing to waste and throw into the garbage. It will be the death of me, the death of me. ...Happily and willingly dying for you. Throwing myself into the ground for you. I'm covered in dirt, I'm rotting away. My love has taken the life of me. I'm covered in dirt, I'm rotting away. ...Happily and willingly rotting away. For you, my love. Who else ? My love has taken the life of me. But you were behind it all along. Because my love is for you, neverending, eternal. My love for you will remain, even here... In my wonderful, new abode. Neverending, eternal, as I said. My love has been the death of me. But to die loving you, makes it all the more worth it.

You never meant to hurt me, I know. So you ripped me apart instead, you tore my very soul to bits. Shattered my heart to pieces. Leaving me aching, and breathless. Is this what it is to love? To give somone so many feelings, feelings you could never give to another, give someone a part of you no one has ever seen, ALL of you - for that matter - , Only for them to rip and shred it from existance ? To tear every bit of you from their heart ? To leave you alone, struggling for something you though you once had. Love is reciprocal. Or is it ? It never seems that way, does it ? You give someone every bit of you -your mind, your body, your spirit, your soul -, but they never return those feelings. You're left alone and cold in the dark. Breaking more by the second, because you know that you're meant to be that way. You never meant to hurt me, I know. So, you shot me down instead. You're love is like a loaded gun to my head. Seeing it, knowing it, feeling it gives me the greatest fear. Yet, I am not afraid. Kill me, dear. Do it. Come on, you know you want to. I am not afraid. Because the feeling I get when I'm near you -be it reciprocal or not- is worth a thousand deaths. Love me, dear. I know it's not easy. Is it easier to kill ? No matter what you say, I know you will. Love me, dear. It's as simple as that. The feeling is like a fucking heart attack. Love me, dear. But kill me on the way. Because this feeling is unbearable - loving you this way.

I listened to the stories, and knew I had none
I was faced with a question. Somewhat of a difficult question..."Are you an only child ? Are you the oldest ? Are you the middle child ? Are you the youngest ?" We were to split into groups, I put myself with the group of the oldest. I decided I was no longer going to consider myself an only child. Because the truth is, I have a sister. Calling myself an only child would be like saying she never existed. When in the groups, we were asked to write the advantages and disandvantadges of being in whatever group we were. I sat in silence, because I didn't know. I listened to the stories, and knew I had none. I listened to them complain about their younger siblings, and I thought...You don't know how lucky you are to have someone to share those memories with. How lucky you are to be able to say "My sister said this, my brother did that." Because one day, something will happen to them, and no matter how much you say you hate them, you will miss them. And you will regret everything you ever said or did to them. I sat in the floor, with my head bowed. And I cried. People asked me what was wrong, and, of course, I said nothing. I just listened to the stories, knowing I had none.

She writes with a little red pen, symbolizing her life. Blood, hate, pain. She stops, thinks, stares. She pulls out a big pink marker, and writes about her life. Full of love and happiness. And then she realizes...She pulls out a black marker. The one with which she used to draw stitches upon her skin. And writes about her love. There is no stopping the words from spilling onto the paper from her soul. Compassion, empathy, passion, desire, pining, loving, losing, wanting, needing, crying, wishing, hoping, and finally...Dying. She sees an old friend. One with which she used to spend much of her time. One who helped vent her rage and pain. She slides this friend across her wrist, and for once in her life...She is numb. She cannot feel. With tears in her eyes, she lies on the ground, silently. Silence. There is only silence. Nothing more. Nothing less. While inside, she is screaming. The reality is slowing, gradually. Everything disappears. Her pain, her love, her passion.

...Her life...

I'm screaming your name, because it's all I've been hearing.
You're in my thoughts, my dreams,
even my nightmares, it seems.
I'm screaming your name, because it's bottled inside me.
I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU.
Can you say it, as I do ?

Say you love me, you love me.
And mean it whole heartedly, please.
I'm begging, no lies, look, I'm on my knees.
Say it truthfully, no lies just to please me.
I want an honest reaction, because this isn't a game.
Don't lie or deny, to reject is the same.

Just hold me, kiss me, and know I belong to you.
You have my heart, you have it completely.
I'll hold it out to you, for all to see.
I love you, dear. And I will not apologize.
There's no need for it, you see.
Because I'm proud to be in love with you, but.. Do you love me ?

Stupid stupid supid. I'm so stupid. I don't understand ! BLAHHHRRRGGHHH !!!!! I'm bored. So very bored. -Going INSANE- Blah, blah, blah. o_O' Purrdy. Wait, what's purrdy ? I don't remember. I forgot. Pretty colors, maybe ? Pretty color on the computer screen, yes. Pretty pretty lime green that I like very muchly. Aww, sadness on the television. Hotness in the room. Very hot. Sweating ! Perspiration ! I'M MELTING !!!! Oscar Mayer weiners on t.v. And cute little kiddies who can't sing. And whistling. I see Mountain Dew, and Dr. Pepper everywhere. And, I'm thirsty. That's no good. I see Spongebob, and Carebears, and a coloring book page that I colored of a little girl blowing bubbles...Very cute. I see faeries on a unicorn. Evanescence, Good Charlotte, Atreyu. Sign on my closet door that says MSI. And I picture of me on a little kid's toy motorcycle. Caution tape over my closet door, because it's scary in there. Lots of monkeys, and Hot Topic Bags. Glasses, clickers, food. Paper, empty c.d. cases. Markers. Camera. Books. 1, 2 books. There are more, but not visible. All Stephen King, and one Anne Rice. Calendar with picture of me and my bestest friend at age 8. Happy Bunny, Jack Skellington. Spongebob boom box, sexy stereo with blue lights. T.v. Spongebob blankie, tye-die blankie. Prettyful pink and white striped blankies. Mouse with cool red lights, computer with blue and orange lights. Big, stupid desk that I don't like. Cool computer desk, that I like. Big computer moniter, bigger than the t.v. WOOSH ! Bunk bed. Cool thing over the light, purple sphere. Very dark, very hot. Very messy. A dresser with lots of writings on it. Stupid sayings, that I wrote when I was young, immature, and naiive. Spongebob pillows, stuffed Spongebob's, stuffed Patrick, Spongebob pinata. Fan, that doesn't give off much air. Blue, fuzzy guitar. Sexy pimp hats. Plaid skirt, studded belt, happy bunny shirt. Orange towel. Bunches of c.d's, inside c.d cases. Spongebob house shoes, movies. Half - eaten poptart. Big black spice - like shoes. Hummm, more boredome. And I shall go now. Because it is late, late, late. And I need to go beddy bye.

I think I will start wearing a bag over my head. Maybe paste a picture of a beautiful woman, icon, on the front. Will you look at me then ? Will you look past my not so beautiful appearance, and look deeper to see what's inside me ? How much love I have to offer ? See the inner beauty I contain ? Yes, I sound arrogant. But is it really arrogant when you know it's true ? Can you see me now. Am I beautiful now ?

I AM ANGRY. Why am I angry... I think I am angry at myself; for being so imperfect. For hating myself so, for beating myself up when I shouldn't. For wanting to cry, for wanting to scream, for wanting to die. I am angry because I am stupid. I give myself too much credit, I'm not worth it. I think too much of myself, I'm not worth it. I hate myself, I despise myself. I've said it far too many times. I'm like a little girl who needs her mommy, but her mommy's not there. So she screams. ...And she never stops. She screams, and screams, and screams. For the rest of her life; but no one can hear her, because she won't let them. She hides; behind anything she can find. A fake smile, laughter, friends. But she cannot hide her fear of being alone. She cries, and bandages cannot fix a cut as deep as this. She cries, she screams. ...And she never stops. She wants her mommy, but cannot find her. She runs; searching desperately. Through fog, through deep woods; no where. So she falls to the ground and cries, only this time... ...She stops. And she never screams again. Because she finds her mommy, somewhere she would never have thought she would be. But she's there because she wants to be. This poor little girl. She wanted to die, only so she could finally be with her.

I'm trapped in a box with locks and chains. No matter how I try, I can't escape. I've created a tiny torture chamber for myself. I'm being ripped apart, but no one can tell. I hide myself behind a plastic smile. I laugh, pretending everything's alright. But I cry at night, trapped in my little box again. Wondering where I will be when it all ends. The scars can be seen, but no one opens their eyes...They just laugh in my face when they see me cry. So I hide behind my plastic smile, pretending I'm O.K. for a while. I hold my tears, and stifle my screams. Despite my smiles, you'll still forget me. So I hide in my box, and let myself die. So, despite my smiles, you can see me cry.