You were my brother but you were looking for a lover. I found that out by the unsolicited kiss I received from your hungry lips. The tequila and the marijuana kept me from pushing you off my neck fast enough. You tried to grasp my heart but you knew it wasn't there because someone else was holding it. All I asked for was your friendship but you took it and threw it away. What hurts the most is I know I can't stop you from loving me. I can't just expect you to hang out with me and not look at me like that. To wish I would just leave him for you. I don't want to wave myself in front of you like a cruel person waving meat in front of a hungry dog. I hate that I will always be someone you can't have because it means you will suffer. I don't wish I could be your lover. I just wish you could see me as a friend. But now I sit here, wanting to talk to you while knowing I can't. I rub at the mark and can't help but cry.

Despite not having a name, everyone seems to know her. Her skin is like porcelain and she has curves in all the right places. Her blue eyes show how genuinely happy she is. Always having energy to do the things she loves and more. When someone is feeling down, she seems to know exactly what to say to console them. She is determined and sure of what she wants to achieve. Nothing stands in the way, for her. I guess you could say she is everything I am not but what I wish I could be.

Lust is the way you were tossed aside like the condom that participated.

Love is the way he stops a moment to just look at you and peer into the windows of your soul.

Lust is the hungry growl echoing through your skull that keeps hitting the headboard.

Love is the sleepy kisses at dawn, regardless of the morning breath and bedhead.

Lust is the longing for a body.

Love is the longing for a soul.

My fingers itch and my eyes are glazed. These pages are absent of the eloquence and I am obsessed with finding it. Screaming into the empty, paper void just to be answered with silence. This was supposed to be easy. The ideas come from me. I am the composer. I am the God of this world I create. But here I sit, begging the Muses that they bestow mercy upon a poor soul below them. I am no God, I whisper through chapped lips and a dry mouth. If only you could smell the realization rising from the floors. I stand, ignoring the sores on my bottom, and leave the claustrophobic walls of my home. The things I'm looking for are not within me, but within everything else. It's hunting time. 

Life has a hopeful undertone

I began to understand

We've made it this far

The horrors of the night melt away

I will rise and stand my ground

Are you searching for purpose?

Look in the mirror and ask your soul if you're alright

Please don't think about why you can't sleep in the evening

You say things with your mouth

They will not take you down

Before you walk away, there's one more thing I want to say:

Stay alive, stay alive, for me.

I cling to the thought that one day, my scars won't bother me. 

That one day, I'll look forward to opening my eyes when dawn approaches.

Maybe one day, my mind will stop churning and winding in violent waves.

Perhaps, I will finally learn to swim and be able to feel myself breathing.

But most of all, I hope that I will be at peace with myself. 

Worry is weight.

It is the thing tugging at your gut to let you know

"You're not fine".

Worry is a lead dumbbell that grows heavier with every waking moment.

Worry eats away at you until you're in shaking shambles.

Worry can and will make you its own.

For some, Worry comes every once in awhile. 

They are merely acquainted with Worry.

For others, Worry has overstayed its welcome.