2 am thoughts

imagine just for a moment

if we could feel it all at once

we talk constantly about the beauty

of nature but what about the

natural beauty of ourselves

beneath the skin and nails

and hair

if we could feel the blood rushing

through our veins every second

and felt our hearts constantly

pounding as our cells reproduce

and our minds tick over and our limited

days are forever running out imagine if

we could feel it and the world was ours

because we didn't need some comprehension

of how it all worked but rather just listened

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Futility

what are words anyway?

sounds and little symbols

assigned to a particular thing

and we use them constantly over and over

and some sounds are beautiful but mean

treacherous things and

 others are hard and mean

delicate things and how

 do words work?

what is so interesting about the

combination of things that inspire us to feel

to speak and write is to feel and

to feel is to live

what are we without words anyway?

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education

we're over educated and the world is closing in on us

i read the news papers at eight

and all hope for the world was gone

i make my own worlds inside me head

i read poetry

and hide from the world im born in

whats the point now

what's the point

to breathe in a world of hate

where we're all educated but no one is learning

we're fighting against each

other instead of with each other

we are little animals sleeping

under the stars with thoughts and feelings

and it makes we wish we didn’t have them

because what is the point of being as

blessed as we are if its used against ourselves

why

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Things our parents left us

i used to be afraid of

the dolls in my room

because at night i'd see

them staring at me

they'd look at me with their

painted eyes wishing i was

less than i was

wishing i could do more with

 what i was given

a face a voice a body and words

 in which to speak

but theyd known then what i'd grow to know that

i am nothing

i have become nothing

in a world of nothingness

because that's the world left for me

the world others created

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The worst mistake

i made a mistake a long time ago

a silly little girl who should have known so much better

who did know so much better

and i regret it with every fiber of my being

each night when i lie awake it crosses my mind and throws me into an endless cycle of self-hatred

whenever i stir from sleep it crawls out of the depths of my mind where it won't remain buried and wakes me from my slumber

if i am glad it smiles at me asking how i could be happy at another's expense

god forbid i collapse into self pity because it swallows up whatever i have left and spits me to the curb

one day i hope i can free myself from this regret from the pain i caused her and myself

but as for now i am helpless but to hate all i have done

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existing

as i take my next breath i wont think of those who wont

as i celebrate a birthday i don't think of those who can't

as i live my life i dont think of others who arent

and isn't it all a little strange

that one persons life is entirely different to your own

only you once caught the same train

but you went to different destinations

and your life has a close and another’s might be sooner

it's all a little strange

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Poems?

i want to be a writer but i lack a certain ability to twist my thoughts into words that create something fathomable to others

there is a difference between writing a poem and writing a story but the similarity is that i can do neither

what is a poem

are they structured? they can be

what's not to say a random stream of my conscious mind at peculiar hours of the day is a poem

who decides what is poetry

is it the reader or a collective audience i don’t know

i don't think this really counts at all

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Home

as i have grown up i have surrounded myself with things i thought were pretty

faux flowers and books and ornaments

and jewelry and posters and clothes

and things i admire and nothing i abhor

i grew up surrounding myself with things i thought were pretty as my mother had before me

as she taught me

my life was never dull to me and the objects gave me comfort

i don't know how and i don't know why and i don't know what the point is but to me they mean home and that is important

i can take them with me wherever i go and i will have a home

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Poison

its all around me in the air

on my face

covering my body

it seeps into my skin

it's on my hands

its in my soul

its in my blood

its all around i can't get out of it i'm stuck its pulling my under and poisoning me

these feelings i cant control

i do not choose who i place my affections in

it is an occurrence i cannot control

and it happens over and over

and like a train with no tracks i have no point

i am a car without fuel

a shop without things

a home without people

i am nothing

i have no purpose except to reside in this own loneliness of my own choosing