LiesThat smooth movement of your tongue,That seems so pleasently formed,To mention of my bountiful beauty,Like it was some solemn dutyOf yours to remind me,To blind me,With a spell of sweet sounding words,This girl does not often hearBut yours are hollow and meant to bind,So your empty truth I could not find,How many others heard those words before me?And took them in like I did?How many others fell victim to false charm,That caused my heart such harm?Those tears that fell from your face,You are a demented disgrace,To tell sweet lies to innocent girls,And pray they never discoverYour real cause of such obsessive love,That would strike a pin into the heart of a dove,That sensitive facade you bore at first,Oh where did it disappear tooOnce your patience had worn so thin,Out came the secret that what you longed for was sin,My naivity was your prey,My innocence you began to seek, to slay,The gentleman subsided,The sweetheart I knew vanished,Hollow words breaking aga
Writing in InkI always hated writing in pencil,and I dont know why.Maybe its because pencils can be erased,written over again on the same paper,But little marks always remain,Ugly reminders of the mistakes of the past.Id rather pen my story in ink,make every word permanent,let every flaw stare me in the faceBecause I dont want to see perfection,Dont want to waste time rubbing away my regret.Even if it means Ill go through hellI just want to see life for everything it is.
Writing.Writing is not art's plainer sister..I think that maybewriting and art are justtwins, like you and me.They're identical but art is much more showy.Art likes to speak in appearance, beauty, and lustwhilst writing likes to speak in whispers, dreams, and silent words..You drew in oil paintbecause you knew it waswashable and could fade away.I wrote in sharpiesbecause it made my writing thin, likefine glass and delicate details and it mademy writingpermanent, because who I am is permanent.I won't change because someone wants me to..Writing is like the soft thumping of a heartor a star during daylight hours; We're awarethat it is there, but we choose not to hearor see it..(But then, maybe art and writingare one person,and maybe they have multiple personalities.They've just never met each other.)
Commission: Two friends, One love.We're both friendsIn that we agreeWe care about each otherIt's simple, you seeWe laugh and we jokeWe smile and we cryWe talk all the timeAnd take ages to say "Bye"But there's one thing about usAnd it's hard for me to sayWe are really great friendsBut I also see you another wayMy feelings for youAre different from beforeI think I'm falling for youYou're someone I can't ignoreWe're only friendsBut that's not the same for meCould we be more than friends?Or am I just being dreamy?But I know the day will comeWhen I know what to doBut until that day comesI'll stay friends with you
Writing....Writing (Or Why I Don't Dumb Down My Work So You Can Read It)I hate it when people askhow I write.I love telling them,the thrill of trying to convey my thoughts to those unknowingis what I do,but all of my explanationscrescendo into a confused smile,an "oh,"and an abrupt change in topic.Can no one understandwhat it's like to chase thoughts in one's mind,to combine words with a crafter's hand,leaving you with the most beautifully ironic line,the most cynically moving ideathat will sway masses of non-believersinto a common frame of mindwithin the confines of one poem?I sometimes feel like the superheroes in movies,but there's no mentor for me,no guiding handthat teaches me to control my powers, per say,so I often believe I'm an alien,intruding on others' thoughtswhen I'm really just changing the lensesof my overall perception of the world.In fact,I usually feel unsafe in my own body,for surely no teenaged girlin a modern era of pure entertainmentshould spend