What if I told you that every rhyme scheme,
was just a letter to an old friend? 

That every stanza written, 
breaks beats like Eazy E did.

That every question,
isn’t just the completion,
of an incomplete thought.

Do fragments exists because,
people have horrible grammar,
or because they can’t think of what,
to say next?

Even once thoughts are completed,
by English standards,
who says they’re done?

Are we just victims of our over-analytical minds,
or is there more to the story?

What if years of reading between,
every line has just made us blind.

The truth is sometimes,
simpler than you want it to be.

It’s spelled out for you to clearly see.
But you always have to think.

There’s something more,
and you miss everything….   

I think maybe I should just stop writing… 

You were like the city, complex, 
and convex,
like every under-pass was a way,
to get under your flesh,
and ever bit of graffiti, 
a scar.

Some say that you taste bitter,
like the sea,
and your lips,
grainy,
like sand.

But I know how you breathe,
because I gave you this life,
this ridged and faithless life.

And with hot hands,
I put my pale fingers to my face,
and press against my eyelids,
until my socket feel vacant.

I was hoping it would make this easier,
but nothing was easy.
like the sea you were blue,
and I was killing you.

I simply doomed you,
with the worried seas,
that live in me. 

I got used to drowning,
but you were more like the city,
than the ocean.

Convex,
complex,
and beautiful…

You took years to build,
but only seconds to destroy.

Don’t worry if it’s not what you’re expecting, 
it’s not what any of us were expecting. 
But she did tell me one thing.
She said that night you vanished,
from the whispers,
into nothing.
She said,
you just disappeared.  

Day one in confinement: I turned a breezy five minute walk into a 15 minute saunter which felt much too much like a war zone due to the ample heat. Yes I did in fact walk in one big circle. I then award myself the title of “Number 1 Dumbass.” And spent the remainder of my time bickering to myself about how I should end my life. My Russian teacher took me on a culture trip. I think she might be a halfa, but I do in fact have an asian Russian teacher. And yes, I must say she’s pretty hot for a teacher. I then received a crap ton of homework that’s due in 3 hours. My life is grand. Envy me. If I come back weighing more than I did when I came here something is wrong because I swear since I’ve been here it’s like walking all day every day.

55wordstories:

          That boy used to do magic, they said. Throwing around cards and balls and coins, flashing a charming smile and speaking in a low, tantalizing voice. Entrancing. Astounding. Magnetic. But now he is sad and nothing will levitate anymore, no rabbits or flowers will appear. Now he conjures tears, summons sighs. The audience is disappointed.

I love our non-confrontational relationshit. It keeps my heart healthy like cheerios. But I never eat fucking cheerios. They’re bland and disgusting. Ugh get the fuck away from me prick-dacious. You’re nothing more than a self-righteous douchebag. If you’d listen to me the first 500 times I wouldn’t have yelled at you. You take no responsblity for your fault in this. You just blame me because I finally got in your face about it and yelled at you (after you shoved me off a cliff and left me there to lick my wounds). You’re a loser. I hope something crawls in your bed tonight and eats you. 

seriously can I just go fling myself off the nearest building…

You said, 
don’t let it hurt so much,
dear it’s only love. 

I said.
I’ve broken my foot once,
had my skin ripped apart,
and sown back together,
creating new schemes,
in the shape of scars.

And they tried to tell me,
one day,
your heart will hurt,
more than any tangible part,
of your body.

I didn’t believe them,
I guess,
I wasn’t ready,
or exposed enough.
To understand,
that the smallest truths,
lay between these words.

And can in fact kill a man.