my words do not want to be devoured.

they sit like green bean casserole on your otherwise-empty plate,

asking to be picked at, played with,

eaten in small and delicate bites.

they do not apologize for what they are-

you may find them unappetizing, or simply boring

but they ask only to be read, and later digested,

perhaps leaving you with a somewhat pleasant feeling.

I cannot ask for even this-

-my words do not beg to be liked.

they do not stand up on stage and scream

I-LOVE-YOU, they do not wait for applause,

and perhaps you will find them discarded in the pit

after the orchestra has left.

they will not become youtube sensations,

they will not go viral- perhaps they will not be read

by anyone except for you.

so if you happen upon my words,

pick them up. keep them to yourself,

hold them for a minute and then

blow them into the wind like dandelion seeds.

perhaps some of those seeds will reach soil and grow.

perhaps no one will think they are beautiful.

perhaps my words don't mind.

Corroded drops of sweat

turn me inside out.

Lightning of my soul cracks

a fissure to let you in

deep inside,

multiplying our time

before we switch bodies,

clinging to final shadows

of ourselves.

I become you and

you become me

smacking against

closed windows

like impaled flies

where we don’t

quite fit.

I grasp the fireflies

of your lungs,

inhale your glow

on slick flat

of my tongue,

breathe in

your essence and

you tender me yours

as I offer

you my joy,

hand you my light.

I bleed out

through your skin

as you inhale

my sanguine bubbles.

We stand as statues

wondering who

we really are,

stretch into regression

in a combat zone

of swapped bones,

holding our bodies

together as

different entities

while we wear

each other

in our hair.

I swap your sun

for mine

and become

what is inside you

and you joust

in my world

in a clear coat

of spumed paint.

But, dear love

I can’t swap

with you forever

because it’s my life

and I must complete

my journey,

in my own body,

and you must revert

to the person you are.

The way I write

Is a real reflection

Of the way I view life.

There's no language

To hide the words

That I'm saying.

There's no hidden meanings

Or questions

Within my own writings.

Except for the ones

That are actual questions.

I don't try to hide

Behind my words,

Instead I let my words

Talk for me.

Because I'm not that important,

But my words are.

I'm allowed to have an opinion.

I'm allowed to have my own say.

And within my style,

I don't hold back what I think.

I just let my mind

(And fingers)

Fly.

If I don't watch myself, I tend to write in parentheses (a lot)

Never understood why, if I'm already talking to a reader surely making an aside doesn't matter that much? (or maybe at all)

Maybe I'm not good at explaining myself in a sentence, only in a fragment safely bound inside a bubble of grammatical insert

(or maybe I just like whispering contradictions in my mind while I write)

If I don't watch myself, I'll insert the word "just" everywhere

Just now, just then, just here and there.

As if I'm trying to control the emotion in my words - lessen them, somehow, just a bit.

It's not necessary, or horrible, just a tad annoying and repetitive

And it just takes a few minutes of proofreading or Wordsearching to eliminate the extra baggage and just let my words flow

If I don't watch myself, I'll dash about my paragraphs - zooming, inserting, cutting - to cram as much in as possible before I end a sentence.

Or to emphasize what's important - like the end of the sentence itself.

I can't sit still and let the words flow at their own place - I have to make them move faster.

Because maybe I'm afraid you won't bother to read all the way through - you know, since it's so boring to read blocks of texts nowadays - so I'm trying to direct your eyes faster through the Tetris maze of my verbal vomit.

I guess the moral of this story is - I just have to watch myself (always).

When I think about it, I know that I have no style unique to me. I am inexperienced and underwritten. I am more familiar with technical papers and games than I am with the creative process. I do not have a voice that you have not heard before, my words are the same as everyone elses.

I adore the work that so many writers have put into their craft, and I only desire to go on that journey myself. Give me a year, a decade, or even a century; I do not believe I will ever be finished finding my voice. There are always new words, new perspectives, new angles, and new tools to try out.

This is an absolutely wonderful craft that fills me with embarassment at what I have written and excitement at what I may write in the future. I want to learn to hate writing, only to someday love it again with newfound passion. It will be awful but I want to confirm that for myself.

Every word I write

Some meaning lies beneath

A form a poetry, it might

Represent, a form, at least.

Writing of love and loyalty,

betrayal and questions of sanity.

I pour my soul into words

I leave them for the world to see.

I fear to let those close know me.

So I scream into the void instead.

I drown my self in the ink of my mind.

And a poem forms from paragraphs of my life.

My life is a story

My words are the pen.

I open my heart

And I will never be sorry.

I write until the story ends.

The sun falls over the horizon. Right now, I am staring at the passing cars on the highway. A yellow one goes by, like the truck my dad owned (before he died).

Today I have been distracted imagining people - painting ugly portraits in my head. I do it until my brain splits apart and identity melts out through my ears.

A bird floats above the highway for a moment. And then off, far away, with the wind. Bye bye, bird.

I think somebody stabbed my chest. I've suspected this since Sunday. Oh, a blue car goes by. Bye bye, blue car.

Do you see the voice? What about the choice? How the voice of reason, rules, and regulations that require a certain choice. I would say I am free spirited, but my body still here. People think

I'm weird for being different, but hey nobody really listens they just craving for attention. I don't show. I just write fast or slow. I display I write here instead of in the page where the rest of the work sit and slowly decay. You know what they say about mirrors they reflect closer than they appear to be. There no shape, form or rules just me.

She lives in Aargau;

not in Chicago.

She lost her flow,

doing everything for the next blow.

Always stealing the show;

why I don’t know.

Not standing longer in the row,

waiting for another hoe, like yo’!

What do I owe?

Being an unseen status quo?

Creeping after the next snow,

while gettin’ licked her toe.

Though,

I believed she was the ine, whoa!

Please, just let me go.

L-M-F-A-O!

Time is our highest asset!

I will never regret,

the sweetest reset,

after this cruel téte-â-téte.

You make me increddibly wet,

I make you fuckin’ sweat.

We play russian roulette,

in our bed.

You’re jsut another punt,

I bet you’ll hit the blunt.

Creating another selfish stunt,

but you aren’t prepared for the unsoft bunt.

I can see through your next white lie,

sometimes I wish, you are going to die!

Now, you might even cry;

be sure, it’s a final good bye.

You can’t even look me in the eye,

I am something, money can’t buy.

Are you wondering why?

Just look in the sky,

oh, I forgot, you just too high.

Yes, you could have been my bae;

the answer to everything is pi.

Please, don’t sigh.

You know, every memory of you

makes me cry.

Time is our highest asset!

I will never regret,

the sweetest reset,

after this cruel téte-â-téte.

You make me increddibly wet,

I make you fuckin’ sweat.

We play russian roulette,

in our bed.

@ubiquitous

I love to write, it's an outlet for me. It lets me take all my feelings, all bundled up in a messy ball, and turn them into somethig pretty.

Thing is, my feelings end up soaking in. The pain, the sadness, but also the happiness and the laughter. My writing is one that is usually very sarcastic, full of jokes and gags. We all smile and we all laugh as the sun shines down. I tell my friends, they help me with these things.

"If we get murdered, I'm sueing,"

"Back it up, biatch,"

But then, everything fades. And here I am, sitting at my computer or with a pencil in my hand. I stare at the blank page, my hands limp and twitching. Then, I write.

I watch as my characters suffer, lose each other, lose themselves. I watch as my feelings cloud and darken the white page. Everything that was is gone now. It's just me and the mess inside my head.

Once again, I'm writing as an outlet, but nothing is happy anymore.

It's just me. A sad girl, writing a sad story, in a dark room, with a tear-stained face.

It's.

Just.

Me.