Friendship

I Hope You’re Happy Now

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September 6th, 2009

The darkness reached out, only to find my hand, and it was all so unplanned, but I went along with it anyway. This was a different side, the one everyone tells me is right, but why does it feel so wrong to the point I’m forced to hide it then, and why is everyone trying to pry it out of me. Time takes the best of me, and I need as much as I can to figure out myself, but it keeps yanking, and I can’t hold on anymore. How do you keep something inside that’s dying to get out, words that you’re proud of but ashamed of who you are with how you feel. I can change who I am, but I’m scared, and the trust isn’t out there for the comfort of my secrets to find. So they stay written in stories, hidden in words, read them between the lines if you want to know. How could you do that to me, you put me on the spot, you try to break me, and half the time I can’t see why I bother to call you a friend. Tell me I’m going to hell, and I hope you realize you’re the one sending me there, pushing something on me that I’m not ready to confront myself about, yet along with you. This wasn’t how I wanted you to find out, but if it worked, I hope you’re happy now.

(Originally Posted Here)

Hourglass

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October 15th, 2019

Alone again
That’s how all my stories end
Who once was a confidant
Isn’t even a friend
There was no resolution
And no pages to turn
You struck the match
But I watched the bridge burn
Our time has run out
Merely seconds on the clock
So as we walk away
We let the final grain drop

DNA

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August 21st, 2009

I want to speak up, but even then I fear no one will hear me still. Even if they hear me, that doesn’t mean that they’re actually even listening. You find yourself writing about your friends, but they’re too annoyed at the fact you’re always writing new things, to even bother reading them anymore. Putting effort and affection into something you think is art, and finding the response wasn’t what you wanted sometimes hurts a lot more than you thought it would. No response, or interrogation. The people who actually care don’t read it in the way it’s supposed to be artistically, and want to know what’s behind it. Writing is personal, and sometimes it takes a lot of courage for me to post it. No one sees that; no one understands. No one gets what crossed my mind when I tried to form those phrases; when I tried to create something that replaces the need for pages and pages of smeared ink diary entries. Simple and complex, they link together, their DNA forms all I need to say that I love writing, but sometimes words are not enough to keep me breathing.

(Originally Posted Here)