Scared

Soft murmurs have quietly exploded into the air

Fireworks illuminating the cold winters

Of my worry

And FRIGHT

Gossip seems to travel faster than the speed of light

Never stopping to catch a breathe

Just dimming

Slowly

Painless anxiety chases down my dreams

Hammer and anvil are dropped down

From the heavens

Turning nightmares into reality

Who’s heard what?

When the story becomes a legend

And truth is swept

Over an ocean of whispers

The nails that hold my floating bubble

Catching the sparks from the brightly lit sky

Confuses me

And makes me doubt my reasons

If everyone believes the rumor

Does that version become reality?

And no one needs

To hear me

Summer is For FUN

I swear, being told education is never ending is one of the most unsettling things a student can experience. I'm at the point in life where I want to never hear anything unrelated to the actual process of living life. Knowing all the wonderful scientific facts and reading all the amazing English literature isn't going to improve my life, especially since my brain decides to forget all of the material the second I finish school anyways.

Like today when I couldn't even remember the words I read from the textbook a billion time the previous night.

UGH!

Endless Secret -- Cat's Eye FanFic

The endless space of a color that only appears to be blue. My eyes wonder aimlessly, staring at the details of the airplane. To my right, a hibernating man oblivious to the shouting and screaming of the passengers. The weeping of the women and children deemed the weaker specimen, file into a mob and exit to the front of the plane. They will be spared. After all, my friends are extremists of peace.

I am hurled onto the ground of the business class, warm from the frantic footsteps of the terrified people. Everyone remaining is told to “get down!”

They are not terrorists. They are not hijackers in my head. The familiar looking comrades simply completing a task crucial to the research I was a part of just yesterday. This is what they believe in. If speaking my opinion about the science I uncovered was a crime, then I would be criminal as well: a person without the right of forgiveness. Instead, I am to be a forgotten marble, buried under the bridge of the living. Unaware of my tendency to exist.

My colleagues in search of their own definition of “just” are now looking through my clothes for an electronic, my baggage for a clue, my seating area for an answer. The words that I was to present on to the scientific community are now scattered onto the ground. Those are not the papers they want. The wingless butterflies fall on top of a few nameless, faceless victims. But I am not a victim. I am the target.  The reason. The unwanted broken glass in the bottle of prized marbles.

I feel like an onlooker until an acquaintance picks me up off the ground.

“I’m sorry, Stephen.”

My research and speculations are unwanted. I am a danger. To the lives of the passengers who have the misfortune of sharing their plane with me. So I stand up and run. I won’t get far. It’s simply my distraction. Unlike the secret of the universe, which will spill onto the Earth eventually, the action of defiance belongs to me.  I open the painted door of the airplane that leads to a space without humans; the air without breathe. The coldness bites into my eyes shocked open far too wide. I close my eyes.

The men know they are after me and silencing my work. They know they must mimic the actions of a hijacking. They know the value of life. Better than anyone else.

To those people, I am only a common marble. Just like the marbles I found on the playground discarded by other children because they were cracked. I hid them in the center of the jars of puries and water babies and cat’s eyes. Even broken marbles deserve to belong somewhere.

I hear the ringing of the trigger and cracking of the finger and the silent whisper of goodbye. The aqua particles of water await my blood and bones; the moisture will be my resting place.

I fly.

Dear ____ ,

She really wants to find a way to convince herself that fighting for the attention of that person is useless. He's not just nice to her. He's nice to everybody. It's just another one of those crushes she had.

"I'll follow with my eyes and never confess to you."

"I would anything you wanted asked of me, but never appear willing."

"I can love you more than anyone else you've dated before, because I know your personality inside out and you're the only person I can talk to."

She really wants to hit herself for believing they could ever be together, even for a second. It's not the racial problem. It's not a problem of class. Compatibility isn't the problem either.

The problem is the first move. The words no one is willing to speak.

She really wants to forget herself in a hopeful fantasy where she can "the one" he chases after, "the girl" he would do anything for.

She really wants to be herself around him, but there's a wall she built a long time ago to protect her heart. It's too strong. There are small dust fragments that crumbles in front of him, but his not really capable of understanding her pain and her trauma. He sees the world in black and white. He's against superficial appearances, false words, broken promises, ill-intentioned actions; everything which she has frequently done in her mis-guided journey. And he's simple enough that he'll never ask how her became so closed off. Yet, he's the closest person to her at the moment.

Their perspectives are so different it's like they're not apart of the same world. But the lack of attachment allows her to say anything in front of him, because he wouldn't repeat it. The reason being his kindness and loving nature, or the certain indifference of his friends, she wouldn't know.

She really wants to wake herself up from this unrealistic nightmare. She rarely speaks to him in person, so the only interaction they really have in social media. 

"Maybe I'm just an entertaining way to pass the time."

"Why won't you reply?!?"

"It's okay. I know you're busy. I'll wait for you to come back."

She really wants to move away from the feelings of suffocation. Unrequited love isn't happiness, right?

"I don't write your name down, because you deserve your privacy and I demand my secrecy."

"I don't write your name down, cuz every time I see your name my heart beats a little faster."

Hiding Behind

Soft murmurs have quietly exploded into the air around my body
Fireworks illuminating the bitter frost of the cold winter
When I worry and fear my own complexion
PARALYZED passion

The nails that hold my floating bubbly fantasy
Catch the sparks from the cloudy sky
Doubts my rash decision of avoidance as a falling raindrop
PARALYZED passion

The reckless excuses for painting a void conversation
When I have important people and more important things
Flash through my conscience evicting no guilt
I'm paralyzed with raging passion
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I should talk to him, right?

"PARALYZED passion"

I shouldn't tell him about my feelings though.
He'll hate me.

"PARALYZED passion"

I would do just about anything if I could find the answer to my affection.
Or at least stop the tugging on my heart every time I see him.
He doesn't know I exist.

I'm paralyzed with a blind passion
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Painless anxiety chases down my dreams in the icy mornings
Trying to avoid the certain glance I always make
Since the emotions cannot be accepted and the hints are not acceptable
PARALYZED passion

What I Don't Say

I bet you wish you knew what was going on in my strange little head. The words I want to say but don't have the strength to. There has a time when the tides seem to break me apart for being myself. For being a person. Or as close to it as I can get. It's not that I'm particularly difficult or pained. It's not like I hasn't been through all the ups and downs of the painful side of my life. It's not like that. There are just words I can't bear to say. Please, no more asking.

Feeling Unwanted

I always feel helpless when the world seems to be unjust, but it's not really my way I handle things around my life. I talk about them. I complain about them. Hell, I'd say I upset myself over the matter simply to prove how trivial it was in the first place. But it's not always about me. It's about other people. Life is about other people.What good am I, if I can only comfort myself? What good am I, if I can only save myself? I'll die from loneliness.

Still, the feeling of helplessness invades my mind more than I can remember.