There are things
I could say
There are things
I don’t
And things I should
And things I won’t

There would be no difference
These words never will change
How you feel
And even if they did
After all this time
I know it wouldn’t be real

You love her
You hate her
The very mention of her
Sends you into so many emotions
It has been a year
Still you cannot shake her
I have never seen you in this place before

You, the one quick to make fun
The one rarely serious
Willing to give up
For her

I love you
But you do not
Love me as much as
Half of the love
You still feel for her

So watch me
Encourage you
To find someone new
To get out in the world
To be happy

While I know
I can never change your feelings
And allow you to forget her
I can never earn after eight years
the same trust
You have given her
In a matter of months

Group Projects

“Okay class, it is now time for your end of year projects. Groups of 2 to 4 please”


I look around the room

I ask the first person

That I see

That I am on somewhat good terms with

partners? I ask

She already has a group

She does not invite me to this group

That group is everyone else I would have asked

There is no one left

but me


I beg myself into a group

where people pity me

into a project I have no interest in

I wish I could be on my own

I wish I had someone that I could work with


What is the point

of these stupid projects anyways?

The teacher would have taught it

if it was important

and if it is not important

why am I using my time on it

when I should be studying

when I should be happy

instead of stressing over another deadline

another time commitment


It wouldn’t be bad

if there was a reason for it

besides to fill the time

It wouldn’t be bad

if I had friends in this class

it might even be fun

It wouldn’t be bad

if the subject my group picked

wasn’t so


or if we were going to present it

in a fun way

and not in a way

that would entertain 5 year olds

and bore 5 year olds

at the same time

It is fine

I suppose


It will happen and that will be that

but I hate the uncomfortable feeling

of being at the house of some one

I barely know

working with people

that have taken pity on me

and allowed me to join them

but not really

because the whole time

I won’t really be one of them

I won’t really have a say

They are a group

They stay together

I am merely passing through

and I will not be allowed

to interrupt them






The rain hits the window

it shakes the roof above me

as I look out

on to the street

it is all quiet


A man with an umbrella

walks on the sidewalk underneath me

Each step feels purposeful

but none are quick nor eager

He simply walks in the rain

it is all quiet


In another room

my dog barks as thunder breaks overhead

The door to my sister’s room creaks

She wraps the dog up in a blanket

repeating calming words

it is all quiet


Someone yells at the rain

In my mind’s eye

I can see them

Twirling with arms stretched out

letting go of everything

but I am in my room

it is all quiet







Silent Blogs

They sit there



waiting for what?

For words to cross their screen

For words to mean something again

But they just sit there


not even with a goodbye

their writer just left

in the middle of



Nothing at All


Credit: Credit: mathilde henriks

If you’re a racist, shed me of my color.
Sexist, go take my gender.
Perfectionist, strip away my flaws.

I’m left with an empty heart,
lifeless body, and nothing,

nothing at all.

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The Beauty of People

I find two things very funny about beauty
1. Different cultures have different ideals of what beauty is and those ideals change over time.
2. Anyone can make themselves look “beautiful” with makeup and surgery, so how do using those means to “improve” yourself do anything but make you less special? Why do you want to be beautiful? So that people will like you? If that’s what makes them like you, they aren’t worth your time. To be confident? If you can’t be confident as yourself, how can you be confident as someone else?

You know it’s funny, sometimes I look in the mirror and think that I am hideous. I wonder how people could ever care for someone as hideous as me, but they do. Then I remember that I don’t notice my friend’s uncontrollable hair anymore, nor my friend’s cleft lip. These are things that whenever I mention to someone else, that doesn’t know my friend, they use to define my friend. Funny isn’t it that I no longer notice? So really, what do looks matter if there are people who care about you that can’t even see them. The only one who sees your “faults” is you, everyone else should only see a person. I think sometimes we forget that, that others are people too.*

*To clarify what I am saying here is that everyone has flaws and most of the time they can be understanding of other people’s flaws because they are flawed as well. Thus, others don’t notice flaws, they only see the person. Except a few people, who you really don’t want to hang out with anyways because he/she thinks that he/she is better than everyone else.

This post was inspired by https://thewhisperedwords.wordpress.com/2015/09/25/am-i-beautiful-yet-society/ and I highly encourage you to read this post.

The Bunny

The teacher stood out in the hall, watching as the students walked by. It had rained that day and the screeching of the shoes on the tile floor was almost unbearable. He watched as the students went to lockers, grabbed books, and headed to class. An odd thought struck him as he watched; no one looked happy. He laughed at his bizarre thought and headed into his room. The students all sat quietly in their seats as he entered. “Today’s lesson is on,” he paused as he turned to his students. They all sat still, watching him. The teacher moved three paces to a table against the wall. He looked back to his students and who were the same as before, the same as always. Something was bothering him, what was it? Maybe he was sick. Yes, that was it. It had to be. It was the only explanation for this feeling he was having. Something felt off, wrong, but nothing appeared to be. “Last class of the day.” he muttered to himself. He could get through it, whatever it was. He looked down at the cage sitting on the table, and remembered his previous train of thought. Out of the cage, he lightly pulled a baby bunny rabbit.  He walked back to the center of the room. Gingerly, he held the tiny creature up for the class to see. his arms then brought the child closer to his chest and it snuggled against him for warmth. A hand scratched the bunny’s ears and made its way down to pet the neck. The man broke the rabbit’s neck in a second, quickly and without warning. He gazed to the class of motionless students.



I must say that I am now haunted by my gpa and by what it will mean for my future. I have done the math, the research, and realized that this isn’t my perfect world. My gpa cannot rise high enough to get me into my first choice school. I feel defeated by this. I wanted to go to this school because of its location and history, there really wasn’t another reason. For what I want to do local college will suit my needs just as well, if not better. In fact, all things concerned this local school would be the best decision. That being said, I could coast through high school not worrying about my gpa as much. With my grades the school will accept me. My mother is mad by my choice to not spend every waking moment studying so I will get better grades that in the long run won’t matter. I don’t see the point in forcing myself to do something for no reason other than pride. I shouldn’t be concerned about my gpa anymore, I should feel free. Instead, I feel like someone just told me Santa doesn’t exist and I can’t reach my dreams. I feel defeated, I still want that gpa that is impossible for me to get, even though I know it won’t matter.
“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past”- The Great Gatsby

Somewhere Only We Know

I have never had a ton of friends. Okay, to be honest I have never had a friend, at least not in the sleepover, nail-painting kind of way. And that was fine, it wasn’t ideal, but no one understood me, or liked the same things I did. I grew up with acquaintances, a group of girls with whom I ate lunch with and would do school projects with. I never saw one girl by herself just to hang. Being by myself wasn’t lonely, it was normal, it was fine. Instead of going to the mall, I biked to the park just a block from my house. The forest continues a ways past the trail where very few people ever go, but if they did, eventually they would come to my tree. It stood between two evergreens which hid the upper part of the tree from view with their green spikes. There was a perfect branch to sit on hidden from the world. It was simple there. It was quiet. It was mine. One day I climbed up and saw a boy. I recognized Ben from my class. He sat there frozen in thought, he didn’t hear me approach next to him until I was there. We both just sat there, thinking. It became normal for me to see Ben there and sometimes we’d talk, but other times we just appreciated that the other was there. It was the first time I realized how lonely I really was. It was nice to have finally found someone to talk to, someone similar to me, and not to be concerned about anyone, because no one was coming. It was our spot to go if a test didn’t go right or someone ‘slipped’ and spilled milk on us. In our world we weren’t outsiders anymore. I saw him that Friday at the tree, he was tired and I was mad. We talked until I had to leave for dinner. It wasn’t until Monday that I heard the news, whispers of it in the halls; “He’s gone, they don’t know where. Ben just disappeared” “I heard he was doing something shady, like selling drugs at school or something” “Maybe Ben was kidnapped” There were all sorts of theories. The whispers were everywhere. After school I biked down to the park and walked to our tree. I don’t really know why, out of habit? Did I hope he would be there waiting for me or that I would find some clue as to where he was? Maybe I just wanted to go to my favorite place to think. The leaves had just begun to turn, brilliant shades of warm reds and oranges, the forest was from a postcard. Some leaves crunched under the tires of my bike as I walked it into the woods. I climbed for a bit before I noticed-the smell, it reeked worse than my brother’s favorite onion and garlic pizza. I looked up to grab the branch above and there he was. The shock caused me to fall off the tree.

A Letter to Katie

Dear Katie,                                                                                           December 3, 2000

My mom’s convinced that this will all pass. She thinks it’s just a fight between friends. She thinks we’ll get over it. I don’t think so. I don’t think I can ever forgive you for what you’ve done. It’s been a month, Katie. I never knew so much could change in just a month. Or maybe nothing really changed, maybe this is just the first time I’ve noticed. How come none of this is affecting you? Why must I feel so sad about what happened? Why am I suffering for it? YOU did it, you did it all. It was you. Not me. I hope you to feel what I am feeling now, I hope you will understand the pain.