God will not have his work made manifest by cowards.

delicate. harmless. was that was she was? this obscene, undiscovered beauty that lay before him? (she reminded him of pirates on a treasure hunt - always looking for the goal but never really finding it, having to bury deeper and deeperinto the pits of whatever might have remained {and when those who were lucky enough to find it finally find it, are they gleeful? are they happy? or are they mourning the loss of their brothers on the trip over?} always reaching for the unfathomable and falling further and further into a despair that tickled his brain stems). was her beauty a mask? (such thoughts reminded him of masquerade balls {people who tried to abandon what they'd conceived and detailed to be themselves, searching for an escape into someone else, if only for a night or a moment} where people paraded around with ridiculous masks. masks didn't change you) but he abandoned such thoughts when he realized he could simply lean over and touch her. which conceived the notion that she was indeed real like he had hoped (instead of his delusional mind conjuring images that he wanted, so badly needed, in an attempt at happiness. for what was a man without friends? {what reason was there to live if no one would miss you? what would be your reason to exist?} and what did material things matter if you had no one to share them with?) but she was real. quite real, in fact, that her cheeks were the color of cherry's as the wind licked across them (the wind was also tossing his already messy hair a great deal - and he wouldn't have been surprised if it had completely ruined whatever image he had been trying to uphold).

but as his eyes wandered (for he could not stop them, no matter how hard he willed and no matter how hard he fought - they always seemingly found their own path to the things that the brain had reminded them subconsciously were fascinating) from the faint traces of her lips (his eyes dragged along them now rather hungrily, whether he noticed it or not {it was probably some muted desire, like that of a dog. an instinct that had been buried so deep that he had seemingly never been able to harness it - could not fathom the power that it had over him and the lust it possessed} and we would like to think that he didn't notice it, for his fragile innocence would soon be wearing thin) to the curve of her nose (it was rather beautiful, compared to most he had seen {the curve reminded him of something almost roman, which intrigued his curiosity to a breaching point} but then he couldn't say that he had wandered around simply observing noses) to the deep blue of her eyes. and they were, to say the least, unbreachable. alex would like to think (as would most people) that there was a depth to his own dark irises that held the secrets of a thousand centuries, buried so deepthat one couldn't help but want to discover them. but as he peered into her eyes (which he found himself doing more so than he would've expected, because who couldn't stop themselves from looking at them?) he saw the secrets of the dead. and if it could been even described with such a simple word, it intrigued him to a point of self-destruction. he was trapped in her eyes (and for a moment he wondered if sitting behind solid bars would feel as caged as the feeling that was burrowing it's way into his chest - would it be so awful to be trapped behind bars such as these?) but he didn't fight the feeling that rose. instead, he welcomed it. he wanted to pry through her (in the sense of her mind, what she thought, how she worked) and discover her secrets. he wanted to know her favorite color (something as simple as such shouldn't be hard to discover) and he wanted to know what was her deepest, darkest desire. she made him want things he couldn't understand, things he had never felt. and it was like a whole new world was being put on display, in a glass tank he couldn't quite open, but only touch.

god will not have his work made manifest by cowards. was emerson really such a genius? (alex was an incredibly large fan of emerson's work on individuality and the purpose of the human - for what was a person without deeper thoughts than that of what would be on the menu for lunch, or what twenty dollars could get me at walmart?) and as he sat down there, on the bench (the cold was seeping through his jeans and sending chills through his lanky body {which only awoke him more - made him feel more alive than he had felt in what seemed like a hundred years - how long had he been asleep?} which reminded him of his place in this seemingly endless eternity) he couldn't help but quote such a brilliant man in his mind. alex - himself - as he stared over at the girl who had introduced herself as alice (the name still sent a shiver of delightrunning up his spine and to his fingertips, which were clutched together as if he needed control of his body) wondered if she had made herself a coward. she had been given a life, and what had she done with it? but merely in a moment (the moment was really almost a fifth of a second, to small to even comprehend the time that had gone by {in fact, it was almost as soon as the thought had appeared that it had disappeared} and so he let it pass with no resentment or wonder) he realized that it was not the case. she was not a coward, from what little he had heard her speak and the body language which she had displayed so openly and freely (whether she was aware or not). and he knew, almost suddenly (he imagined that it was like spiritual awakening, in the sense that he was now aware of things that hadn't seemed to exist prior to the experience) that she was made to be compatible with him. he wasn't one to believe in souls (because if he did believe in souls, where would his be right now? most people imagined them as white little beings that lived inside your chest {similar to harry potter, in certain aspects} genderless and faceless - but when something bad happened to you {as if, a crime, or a wrong-doing on your part} did your soul get a little darker? tinged with the color of your sin? because if that was the case, alex's soul would be the darkest black - like the black of the night sky, with little change of aredeemable quality) 

Reality Is a Prison.

Deep inside,

we never know what's next,

we only know what we hide.

I've got my head in the game,

but my heart's in the sky.

A perfect little train-wreck,

I have to crash before I can fly.

Reaching,

reaching for the end of this story.

Falling,

falling toward a morning glory.

And crawling underneath,

underneath my skin,

underneath these scars.

I see my fate,

I see the world,

I see who we are.

Scattered there,

we fall apart.

All alone,

I can't see in the dark.

You took my hand,

you led me here.

I watched you disappear.

I've heard this story a hundred times,

It can't be mine.

I can't keep up,

I can't keep living this lie.

Hoping,

hoping for a better tomorrow.

Breaking,

breaking to the point where I can't fight any longer.

And crawling underneath,

underneath my skin,

underneath my scars.

I see my fate,

I see the world,

I see who we are.

Scattered there,

we fall apart.

All alone,

I can't see in the dark.

I see the girl,

the girl in the mirror.

She's different now,

She can see everything a little clearer.

She'll face the world,

with her head held high,

and her heart unfurled.

She has her answers now.

And crawling underneath,

underneath my skin,

underneath my scars.

I see my fate,

I see the world,

I see who we are.

Broken apart,

we sit in the dark.

All alone,

left with a burn mark.

We can't see in the dark.

Broken apart.

But it's falling apart.

When you look in the mirror,

what do you see?

My mother sees a women,

lost in her own world.

But she had to hold control,

or else she would start to fall.

My father sees a man,

who believes in all he sees.

A sharp sense of reality,

and a never ending breeze.

My sister sees a girl, 

not worth  anyones time of day.

She never sees  perfection,

not even when it stares her in the face.

When I look in the mirror,

there are multiple things I see.

I see a girl,

not quite grown up,

but faltering in belief.

A girl who's haunted by her dreams,

by her reality,

and everything she feels.

A girl who wants to be it all,

but without the guts to try.

I see a girl,

who's haunted by her sight.

And whisper sweet release.

When I was little,

I was given a pen and a piece of paper.

"Describe what you see."

And I did just that.

I saw monsters,

they hid underneath my bed.

I saw demons,

they hid in my closet.

I saw hope,

through people who had firm belief.

I saw love,

embraced with wide open arms.

When I grew older,

I was given a pen and a piece of paper.

"Describe what you see."

And I did just that.

I saw monsters,

they crawled down my hallway.

I saw demons,

they crept into my bed.

I saw hope,

people who so vainly wanted to believe.

I saw love,

redemption from a greater God.

When I was old,

I was given a pen and a piece of paper.

"Describe what you see."

And I did just that.

I saw monsters,

crawling inside of me.

I saw demons,

drifting off of my fingertips.

I saw hope,

greedy con-men hoping for salvation.

I saw love,

but it simply turned to dust.

The monsters live within us.

The demons haunt our steps.

Hope is just a vain excuse for faith.

And love is simply reaching for unimaginable depths.

Try to find a way to screw my head on right.

I always know,
that eventually everyone will just forget me.
That I will just become,
another face within the crowd.
And even though I'll remember it all,
It'll hurt more than I could ever imagine.
One day, my heart will stop beating.
And then, finally, I will be at peace with myself.
I know that I'm not much,
but I try my hardest to impress you.
All I ever know,
is that to you, I am nothing.
And while I hang on for dear life,
I'll eventually have to let go.

Fixed at Zero.

For everything I like about myself,

There's always something I hate.

I try my hardest to be perfect,

But what is perfect?

I want to impress my parents, 

But they don't believe in anything I do.

I want to follow my dreams,

But I'm only crushed by them.

I never want to be alone,

But with each passing day I feel lost.

I want to be able to keep my head above the waves,

But I feel like I'm drowning without a savior.

I want to be able to tell you all of these things,

But I know you'll never care.

Her dreams are far and few.

No matter how hard she pushed,
 no matter how far she ran, 
it would always find her.

It crawled

in her veins,

triggering emotions,

that she'd forgotten she could feel.

Through

will power,

she tried to stay away.

But her heart and

her mind

couldn't control it.

They couldn't control the urges,

they couldn't control the pain

it caused

She tried to drag herself,

half willing, half reluctant,

but she couldn't escape the

grief.

It coaxed her,

it called her name throughout the day,

It constantly brought her back in, because it was

the life support

that she needed,

the one that she craved,

like a lonely child

that she

couldn't get rid of.

Her heart, though trying to remain clear,

thumped slower in her chest because she 

needed

it running through her veins.

Like jumping off a bridge,

she was only

desperately

calling it's name.

Her throat was parched,

because she wanted, but

was

scared of having it,

in her grasp.

And even though it was slowly

killing

her spirits,

it still managed to hold on.

She felt that

her

heart was going to burst.

That her stomach was going to break.

And that she would end

slowly.