Uhm. Don't Care. Not Very Good.

i dont want to go to school tomorrow.

at least it isnt as painful as it used to be.

it used to be hell

to see his face everyday

but he couldn't tell

at all.

no he couldnt tell.

that anything was going on in this head.

or heart, rather.

i dont want to write another one of those

poems that ive writen so many of.

the boy, the heartbreak, the love.

I dont want to write another.

Those kinds of words don't deserve my fingertips.

I just want to record

the life of the bored.

and the stressed.

and the lovestruck

and depressed.

the life of the confused

and the jealous

and the boycrazy.

and overzelous

and the lazy.

i just want to record my life.

and as of now, this very second, my life is bittersweet.

whose isnt.

Made for it.

i guess you could
say i was made
for love
because a girl that
wants it this bad
must be meant
for it.

i guess you could
call me hypocritical
or ungrateful because
you know, that i used to
have love.
or something alot like it.

i guess you could say
that id want you to call me at 2
even if i tell you i hate it
that id want you to embrace my hair
tell me i smell good even if
its just my cheapo costco-brand shampoo.
that id want you to show up at my school
just to.

h
a
n
g
just to
love me for maybe 20 minutes more.

i guess you could call me des
perate
and i guess id call myself that too
but not when the only guy that id want
is a guy that i used to

have and used to hold and used to
cherish and used to scold and took
for granted and loved so much.

no, you couldn't call me desperate
when i have such high standards
for a guy to be mine.

he has to have gorgeous blue and green eyes
with specks of brown
and that messy blonde hair
a strange sense of humor
good at tennis
(yeah, lets throw that in there)
likes sprite, good at volleyball
big lips, big head, big heart

i guess you could say i have high expectations
for a guy to mine
my expectations would be you.


i guess you could
say i was made
for love
because a girl that
wants it this bad
must be meant
for it.

Ovaries Please

He, who follows me home.

I am lonely and I am weak
with only one companion to own
he does not sing, he does not speak
he is the moon that follows me home.

I think of love and how it was made
and how no boundaries it has known
I think of the game and how it is played
as I watch the moon follow me home.

The clouds, they move, but he does not.
He persists he persists he persists
My feelings they sway, but he does not.
He insists he insists he insists.

My heart is lonely, My heart is weak
with only one companion to own
he does not sing, he does not speak
he is the moon that follows me home.

Unheard