I'd choose to lose my eyes before I ever lost my ear,

so that i'd better recognize the way the air feels when you're near

and I'd lose blood for your laughter- a song I'd die to hear-

I'd lose my mindto keep my nerve so that I'd never have to fear

the way I want to love you

I understand now why the moon chose mortality

when she could've kept her lover forever, sound asleep

though I'd put flowers in your hair and you'd smile while you'd dream

forever would be nothing if I could hear you speak

to me so consciously

Some of us were made to be obsessed

so when you see me babe don't be upset (I'm in the)

doorway I'm in yur way, in your head

when you leave me love you won't forget

the way I want to love you

There are a thousand ways to suffocate, and I wasn't made to live

So let me die to make make you happy, my life is all I care to give

One day you'll find somebody golden, and box me in the attic

I'll rot and mold and tarnish, while you giggle in emphatic

joy- the way I could not love you

I'm a hopeless romantic, the worst kind- I fear it's true

Don't try to love me back my dear, you'll leave your love bruised

You've got the aura of the sun, the only gold I'd worship

So Please just eave me in the attic, in the shadows, in y morbid

way I wish to love you

The man was 40 something, the girl was 38.

- his hair was streaked with grey

- his heart showed little age

The man was 40 something, the girl was 38

- her skin held scars and wrinkles

- her body was a cage

*Her body was a cage, like the one used for crabs.

One that's been discarded, leaning on a shack*

Ex. her crab-empty cage of a body

The man was 40 something, the girl was 38

- He was made for Oregon

- She was made to smile

The man was 40 something, his father 96

- he lived in an apartment in the east

- she needed a place to stay

NOTE **He was once 27, and she was 22

- they had lived out west

- they had a large breed dog**

He was 40 something, the girl was 38

- she showed up on his doorstep

- he showed her to her room

He was 40 something, the girl was 38

- his father couldn't speak,

- the girl wouldn't say why she wouldn't eat his food

NOTE for the next watcher **The apartment complex was full of broken hearts and empty bodies**

He wondered if she'd love him again

he mumbled "Breezeblocks" by Alt-J when unloading the groceries

The man was 40 something, and she was 38

- She'd pass out on the balcony every other day,

naked, with a cigarette in hand

The man was 40 something, and she was 38

- he went to work bagging groceries

- The town's gossip thrived there

REMEMBER **The apartment complex was full of broken hearts and empty bodies

- after two weeks they knew her empty body well

- They weren't surprised to see it hang** (huh)

The man was 40 something, and she 38

- they didn't know he loved her

- she couldn't feel the same

The man was 40 something, and she was for the grave

- she couldn't feel at all

NOTE for the reader **there are people you can't save**

So the man was 40 something

- she was

OBSERVATION FROM THE WATCHER

"They weren't made for this."

instead I crept into the doorway and I watched them breathe together

My sister looked distraught laid Against my tired mother

She frowned the way that children do The way that I could never

The protected way that children could- Allowed to feel whatever

And my mother tried her darndest But I could see her tired eyes

She didn't frown she didn't twitch When I turned on the kitchen light

I turned around to go to bed But when I got there, babe, I cried

Whod've known a four year old Felt so damn lonely that night

I woke up on her laundry In the doorway, on the floor-

Of course she was annoyed But I's not lonely anymore

no ones awake at 3 am and midnight no one wants to talk

so i listen to the stories and then I tell more to the walls

and the walls began to answer with moths against the glass

and the wind through the leaves outside and faces from the past

later I crawled under the covers and I listened to the rain

when the baby needs to sleep The machine won't sound the same

but the baby cried much louder She wasn't taught yet not to cry

she's allowed to seek attention Wake her parents in the night

and my mother is so tired and my Father isn't mine

and the rain on the machine repeats Perfectly in time

I ran into the livingroom Found a chair, began to cry

my ears could not hear that rhythm Repeat one more damn time

My mother found me the next morning, In the kitchen, on the floor

Of course she was annoyed But the rain can't hurt me no more

When the kids giggle at school Their god would tell me to be kind

the nicest thing I seemed to do was to Walk four feet behind

I rarely talked in groups, I didn't dare to crack a joke

so I laughed out loud at nothing, And used riddles when I spoke

then I got home and went to work then Volunteered more than was wise

I have homework, I need to run, and I need to sit and write

I sent two texts an hour ago, I wait for their replies

knowing I'd go with them wherever, if I didn't have the time

So my grades begin to slip, my mother goes to sleep at six

and my sister throws a hole in the wall and gives me lip

I wake up an hour late, and I still wake up on the floor

but mama you can't blame me, I ain't lonely anymore

I vaguely remember writing it- not sure when, or why.

It had to be important.

It hid under my sleeve at school. I didn't speak to my friends much.

I ignored it, mostly.

There was a speaker on my backseat when I threw my backpack in.

After the drive to school, there was a speaker and a rose-

a very old, very dead rose

on my backseat when I pulled my backpack out.

I didn't speak to my friends much. I didn't think about the dead rose.

I ignored the writing on my arm, mostly.

I pulled off my sweater when I got home. It was too hot for a sweater.

I had my ToDo list on my palm, my schedule on the back of my hand. On my thigh there were encouraging phrases, my desperate attempts to motivate myself into finishing my homework the night before.

And of course, on the inside of my forearm, it lay, nearly faded, neatly scrawled.

"Sometimes My Textbook refers to Dead Philosophers in the Present Tense"

It must've been important, it lay there hidden.

I hadn't spoken very much to my friends.

Strange, it wasn't written in my handwriting.

It worked.

I sit on my kitchen floor, alone.

I said what I needed to, I defended those who needed defending behind their backs.

I did everything right, and

It

Worked.

Everybody's happy.

And I sit on my kitchen floor, alone.

Why do I need to blame myself?

Why do I need to be at fault.

Why can't I just take the win?

Everybody's happy.

It worked.

And I'm at the jury pleading guilty

Who'd have thought the lawyer would confess? She was quite an experienced lawyer. And what on Earth is she confessing to?

Put me in jail, I beg of you. Put me in jail, I'm guilty. Please.

Everybody's happy. Thank God.

And I'm on my kitchen floor,

wondering why.

Maybe I only feel at peace when I'm punished. Hold myself accountable, and I'll be morally okay. But only if I'm held accountable for something.

So let me be your martyr, let me be your villain, but don't you dare make me a hero.

It worked, but it wasn't me.

Let me stay behind the scenes.

But what could I have done, had I interfered before?

I'm writing a series. A chronicle of a sort.

A world in my head, so much like our own, but so different.

Over and over again, through out the history of this little world, they try to save it. Over and over again, they succeed- but by saving it, they break it, just a little bit more.

They don't, in the end. It was always always doomed to fail. This world, since the beginning, was always doomed to end.

So why do I write it? What's the point? What's the story? What do we learn? Isn't that the point of stories? To learn something?

I think the point of the story is that its okay in the in between. It's okay in the little moments. Even if it is al doomed to end, it was all worth it. The moajority of the time, the majority of people were in pain. But those few and far between moments were worth it.

It feels diminishing of the horrors and the terrors. Nothing should make the slavery, the exploitation, the hunger, the war, the hopelessness, the pain, the rape okay. Nothing.

But would we give all of it up to avoid that? Could we really just end it all and not even hope to try?

I'm not really certain its a good moral, or a good point.

But that's what it happens to be. The example to kind of help answer that question. Wanted to save it somewhere in case I forgot while writing t.

The walker's got a tune

he whistles it in June

but he only ever whistles alone

The walker's got a blanket

(I'm pretty sure he made it)

and a big fluffy beard, fully grown

The walker had a name

but not anymore

when he's walking with you

he won't say a word

for better or worse

he doesn't know north

so he'll never

try to find

his way

home

He'll be there when your lost

and he'll be there to stay

until you decide

you want to find your way

He'll be there when you give up

oh the peace of no care

A survivor of alone

Don't worry, he'll be there

The walker's got a story

but not one to tell

So forget your questions, child

just get yourself out of hell

no he's not your savior

he's not even your friend

he's a walker and he'll never

see a story end

I've got people in my head

they won't let me forget

just where they

came from

One, he calls me "his best friend"

the other tells me when I can

I should

run

Help! They're going to take me!

And you will all mistake me

for insane!

Help! they're going to keep me!

And I'll forget

I tried to get

away...

There are people in my dreams

they love me unconditionally

I'm starting to think

that's not

a good thing

They must suffer; I must sleep-

and somewhere in

their hearts,

I think they

blame me

Baby, tell me what it means

to be hated by your creator?

They love you, but they

kind of want you

dead

Maybe God isn't what he seems?

Maybe He's a writer

and this was always how

it had

to

End

It had to end.

There are people

in my head they won't let me forget

just where they

came from

One, he calls me-

his best friend, the other,

tells me "when I can,

I should" run

***An author on instagram posted a poem that began with the first two lines. This is my unique take on the idea.***

I'd let you read

the things I wrote

about you,

except that I already have.

I wrote about you

when I wrote about the stars

hiding in the eyes of children.

I wrote about you

when I wrote about the statues

that captured the love of dreamers.

I wrote about you

when I wrote about the shadows

the artists crawled to to survive.

When you read what I wrote

about the man in the moon,

my dear you were only

ever reading about you.

When you read what I wrote

about the long talks at night,

it was only about you,

I'd decided to write.

When you read what I wrote

about oxygen and jazz,

you will see the real influence

thattrue love has.

When you read about fear,

about narcissism and shame,

in between the cursed lines,

you'd also read your name.

I'd let you read the things

I wrote about you,

except you already did-

but please, keep on believing

I just dreamt up

all of this