I'm so into you that I can't see out

(I stole that last part from a song I heard;

inspiration comes in waves.)

It's a silly feeling to second guess yourself

out of all the splendid things in life. 

Everyone tells me how gorgeous a smile is,

and I suppose I can try to be more beautiful for you,

but you seem to bring out the gorgeous in me

and I can feel it with every move I make

(and even those I refuse to move a muscle for.)

Impulses are the only thing in my veins

and my skin is too thin to keep them in.

There is no meaning here at all,

just humanity in it's finest,

inspiration at it's core,

I want to be better for you

but I amount to nothing.

There's a shelf in my room filled with books

and another filled with my own words,

but given the chance I would burn them both down

to create the space I need for you.

Besides,

given the chance,

the novels my fingers have graced have nothing in comparison 

to the story we'll be dying to tell.

(And if it should end,

I have no idea what I am doing anymore. Everyone keeps swaying my opinion as if I am nothing at all. They are the wind and I am a lonely flake of skin that had been scratched off in one last attempt for comfort. Admit it to yourself; the skin you live in feels more reptilian than you can admit to yourself and we're all just looking for that rock in the desert to fall asleep on. I know I am. I hope the sunlight shrivels my skin and bleaches my hair; where is my beauty? Certainly not on the inside, but my outer layers are too fragile to hold the compliments.

If you want to know my secrets, all you have to do is ask. No matter how long I know you, I will only show you a handfull of my them, anyway. I don't need anyone getting ahold of my threads. No one has to unravel me. My mind unravels itself.

The truth is, I open my mouth more often than I know what to say. I stare off in space because I cannot handle the emotions I am tempted to face on a daily basis. I prefer those who are strangers to me because they will never have to deal with my shit, they will never know how disappointing I am, and they will never know the talent I waste sitting alone at night. Casablanca is the best movie I have watched, and I am confident that Humphrey Bogart is my favorite actor, but the emotions I feel while I watch movies of my era are so greatly differed than those I feel from the classics in black and white and floor length dresses that I cannot help but remove myself from my reality constantly. Give me a book, press play on a movie, for fucks sake talk to me. I want to pick apart your brain. I can't tell if it's my lack of intelligence or inspiration, but I am losing sight of my middle school dreams and breaking down into harsher realities. I told myself no monetary value could be put on my happiness, but the cost of living has to be greater than that of happiness.

For now.