Peter Pan

Peter Pan,

I do not want to grow up. Paying bills and grocery shopping intimidate me. I want to explore the world. Find lost things. Drown in no responsibilities and freedom. 

I don't want to grow up. I'm too young to be old but too old to be young. 

Please come at my broken window and pour a gallon of pixie dust to revert back time. 

I am a lost boy at heart. I spend more time outside and in other worlds than cramped up inside this world. 

I am a Wendy at soul. They will never change me, even though they will try. 

Peter, I know you fell in love with Wendy Moira Angela Darling, that's why it hurt so much when she left for England. 

Love is a strange thing. It will heal your soul but shatter it into a million pieces if it can, lifting them up into the sky as the Milky Way. 

Tell the Lost Boys to not lose sight of who they are. They are old men with crows feet by their eyes and wrinkled skin, but a child at heart. 

Tell the Lost Boys that Cinderella finds her glass slipper and a prince along with her slipper. 

Snow White is awaken by her true love, Sleeping Beauty is the same. 

They all get happy endings. And so shall you. My happy ending is soon beginning but will not be an ending and will not end the same. 

With faith, trust, and pixie dust,

another Wendy. 

This is me...

I have been hesitant to sprawl my fingers across the keyboard that have grown far too familiar.

 Millions of mixed thoughts and feelings rummage through my mind as doubts and regrets flow.

Alas, I am the girl that sits reviewing the smiles on pretty girls and bold boys talk just as the babbling brook in my backyard. 

I no longer sit in the back of the classroom, but I still eat alone.

I am not a superhero. I am not an excellent writer.

I had envy eyes as I read Carolina Liar, Courtney Rome, Adeline Stone, La Luna, Just Korra, and Eva Peron. But love and admire them so. 

I never made it on the top five or hashtag stolen.

But I know that I have held back. In fear, worrying no one was reading.

Everyone has a creative side whether they choose to believe that or not.

I am the girl who kisses the night in hopes another is kissing too.

I am the girl who doesn't wear what she wants because of fear and self consciousness. 

I am nothing what people labeled me.

Labels I am sure you have been labeled as well.

Fat. Ugly. Stupid. Not good enough. Try-hard. Copy-cat. Fag. The list goes on and on.

I have also been labeled as: beautiful, a beautiful writer, colorful, kind-hearted.

Can you guess which ones I believed? 

I am not my diseases that tries to shade me a color of monotonous grey that capes the beauty of the world.

I am the pitch in my laughter, the inky brown in my eyes.

I am the playlist I keep in my head for every situation.

 "Nothing breaks a being more than questioning who they are. While trying to ignore what they should be." A quote from my dear friend, Kassandra Griscoe.

A part of me I never knew I would treasure.

But, this is me.

The girl who loves driving late at night with the windows down and the moon kissing the road, the wind thrashing against her skin.

The girl who loves too deeply and falls too quickly.

Who wants to hear the world and the world hear her, but is too scared.

The girl who has learned it is okay to open up and expose yourself to be viewed as an art exhibit.

The girl who wishes for you to stay to learn more about.

You see, I am just like you. That is another thing I have learned; even in the same classroom but different seats, we are all the same.

I admire the moon and the stars.

I admire all of you.

Thank you.

And thank you Kassandra, for igniting the flames within my childhood and becoming real just as me.

With all of my love,

Katie Taylor

Stairway to Heaven

I'm on the stairway to heaven. Even though my scars are heavy. I am a warrior. I don't want to lose control, I don't want to be stone cold. 

Its been a while since I can say I wasn't addicted to you. 

My heart goes into slow motion as my mind melts away. I am still here. These words may fool you, but I am beginning to be happy. My demons are shifting into the corner. I still call out; hello, can anyone hear me? Misery, is jealous of my happy eyes. There are many things I can tell you that I don't want. 

I don't want to fade away, I don't want to just be another brick in the wall. I don't want to tear away. 

I am learning how to be a black bird; "take these broken wings and learn to fly." Just as John Lennon had said.

Depression makes me wanna die sometimes. 

But I am still here. 

Alone

Alone. Alone.

Dear God, I am so alone. 

No one understands because no one sees me.

No one hears me. 

I am a ghost. 

A lonely ghost in the night. 

I pray to you.

Are you still there, dear God?

Can you hear my cries?

Alone. 

I am still alone. 

I feel guilty. 

I feel pleased. 

Dear God, will you help the pale sinners on their knees? 

I'm alone. 

We are all alone. So very alone. 

Alone. 

Alone. 

Alone. 

Alone. 

What am I feeling? 

God.. If you are out there.. Please. 

Remembering

 Do you remember twins falling into the ruble one at a time?

I was only three.

Do you remember when four teenagers made a pact to commit suicide during Christmas break?

I remember praying for their families that night.

Do you remember when backyards were the safest place on Earth?
I've been to China, Egypt, Madagascar, Narnia, all before supper time.
Do you remember hiding behind your covers thinking they would protect you?
I had hippo eyes while holding my breath.
Do you remember the letters they make teachers read?
I remember my French teacher crying through the suicide notice my sophomore year.
Do you remember when I came home crying because Maddie made me eat a potato bug?
I felt sorry for the poor bug that died between my teeth.
Do you remember when the world was ending in 2012?
I had my first sleepover then.
Do you remember when bitter frosting and loose teeth were the only problems as a child?
I never knew those would be a lesson to me as a teenager.
Do you remember when Santa, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy became parents with an emptied out wallet and regretful chewing on the cookies they wished you didn't make so many?
I hid in a bin in the back of my closet; crying.
Isn't it funny what we remember and what we forget?
We remember what we wish to forget and we forget what we wish to remember.
Do you remember the terrified teenagers at the Columbine shooting of 1999?
Or the girl known as 'the girl who said 'yes'?'
I remember my biology teacher yell at our class for being too noisy through a lock down drill who referenced to this shooting.
Do you remember when Chapstick was invented?
Yeah, me neither.
Do you remember when the grumpy, wrinkled teacher yelled at me in front of the classroom for being late by three minutes?
I ended up crying in front of the class. I stopped wanting to talk to teachers. I secretly feel they despise me.
Do you remember when police K-9's searched the school for drugs and found some?
Police dogs give me anxiety attacks.
Do you remember when all of your hard work went to nothing when no one gave feed back, so you didn't want to do it anymore?
Yeah, that happens to me often. Even on the blogs.
Do you remember when 'Stupid', 'Fat', 'Jerk, and 'Sex' were the worst words out there?
Now there are over forty.
Do you remember when Syria's government poured mustard gas on their own people?
Google images are terrifyingly disturbing.
Do you remember the lost things you forgot all about?
Do you remember what you wish to forget?
So do I. But that's okay.
I remember, but do you?

You kill me inside

You kill me inside.

Words that stagger into my mind at four in the morning.

You make me feel like the pink bubble gum on the bottom of your shoe.

You kill me inside.

I carved your name into my heart hoping you would stay.

I carved your name into my heart knowing mine would be nowhere near yours.

You kill me inside.

Those endless nights tossing and turning and the coldness of the blanket wrapped around my thigh.

You burn me alive.

I feel as if I am drowning in quicksand. Slowly.

You make me feel as if my body crawls up in flames with one blank stare.

You carved your name into my skull with a broken number two pencil.

I carved a four letter word on a desk in fourth period. 

I watched the words slowly become dull and meaningless.

I watched you carve another's name into your heart where mine should be.

You kill me inside.

Alive

Maybe it's unstoppable. 

Maybe it's inevitable. 

Growing old and dying youthful.

Changing the colors in our eyes to fit the shade of grey.

What is being alive?

Is it the constant inhaling and exhaling of rhythmic breaths?

Is it the crippling bars of a keyboard?

Is it the mountains we climb to get to the greener grass?
As we grow older we slowly fade away into the monotonous shades of grey of the society we helped build.
The different formats of love and hate become the air we breathe.
I do not want to live in vain.
I want to chase my dreams that try to float away on a string.
Am I alive?
I have feelings I do not fully understand.
I have hormones and chromosomes.
I have a beating heart and a throbbing pulse.
Thick blood bubbles to the surface when my skin parts ways.
Am I alive?
My mind collects words and phrases like a spider's web.
I can feel sand between my toes.
I can taste the rustic blood on my tongue.
I can smile and laugh freely.
Is that being alive?
I want to grow old. I want to see the world through wrinkled eyes.
I want to feel alive.

A silent moment for pardoned roses

So many people become lyrics of songs and lines of poetry, but will never know; our world is full of the ghosts of unspoken words and memories.

So many things become objects of the past that sit on a dusty shelf in the corner of a room which gets little light. Things that we forgot we ever had.

Memories we forgot we ever possessed. 

Lyrics that embrace our soul with every filling letter that once was their firm grip.

Sentences and quotes from unknown passages align with our emotions to create a figment of their body through our imagination. 

The soft clicking of the keyboard echos throughout the room igniting the flames of fusion and ingenious flames balling into a symphony.

A description defining the crease just above your brow.

The piercing eyes that caused my symphony of words to go higher than a C.

No electric device could recreate the eternal shock your touch planted throughout my body.  

So many crucifixes streamed with roses and carnations with broken seashells trying to spell out a lost name that will be scorched away by the basking sun and an empty road. 

Another brick in the wall

I was just a brick. Nothing but a mixture of molecules and particles with a dash of atoms.

Nothing more than a brick with stilts. 

The world was painted ashen grey. 

Dull and frightening. 

I was a brick that wore thick coats of the color chosen by someone else controlling my life.

I was a brick; just like you.

On the top five list of what we fall through is; letting others define our humanity.

I'm not talking about society. I'm talking about pressure points, swollen tonsils, downing blue and pink pills. I'm talking about the man upstairs and the little goblin hiding beneath the boundaries of Hell and Hollywood. 

I'm talking about the girl next door who only dates guys with piercings and skull tattoos.

I'm talking of sin and anarchy. The model posing half nude on page sixty-one.

I'm talking of different shades of magenta and violet. 

Teachers paint layer after layer of math equations, grammar corrections, notebook inspections. 

Parents stain us with drawing curtains, gifted notions, Colosseum battles, and fixated punishments.

We let peers and strangers take control of what we wish to be. 

I am another brick creating this boarder between humanity and destruction.

I am another brick aligning with the stars that mock my indifference.

This wall separates us from walking down State Street with pigtails and a bowling pin in the grip of our hands.

This wall keeps tearing us down.

Day by day suppressed symbols and colors drained from a spray can cover me.

"All in all you're just another brick in the wall."

Simple, yet powerful statement. 

I never truly understood it until I grew older. I got a slap in the face as I knew what and how it felt.

I kept saying to myself;  all in all I'm yet another brick in the wall.

16 Reasons why I hate teenage years

1. Adults expect you to act like an adult but treat you as a child.

2. Other teenagers can be cruel. 

3. You forget what it's like to be a child and to be carefree.

4. There are countless nights of silent crying into your soaked pillowcase and open eyelids as your mind races like a speeding train.

5. You wish you could Photoshop your body the way you see in magazines and billboards.

6. Speaking your mind is a death penalty.

7. Friends can be fake, relationships may be a ticket in the bedroom.

8. Pressures to get into Harvard, BYU, Yale, and Oxford. Instead of beauty school, community college, or no school at all.

9. These are the years you will remember the most.

10. Deciding which to cut out; social life or passing grades.

11. Everyone is connected but unconnected from the world.

12. It's hard to find REAL friends and REAL people.

13. Every parent and adult says "back in my day we didn't have the internet or cell phones."

14. Trying to find yourself while becoming lost along the way.

15. Trying to live up to the expectations of your parents, grandparents, teachers, and everyone around you.

And 16. Finding the courage in every nook and cranny of your heart and mind to be yourself and be proud. 

A Nightmare

The air was tainted with ashes and black smoke.

The stench was foul, making your stomach flip.

Hills of rotting corpses in every direction.

Flames of orange, red, and yellow raid the horizon.

A fence dividing sickly walking skeletons from the living.

White and black striped jumpsuits with a figurine across their shoulder blade separated them from the rest. 

Posters line the streets with images of rats and the figurine.

Poisoning the minds of their once neighbors.

A place for Jews, blacks, colored skins, gypsies, homosexuals.

Their rightful place. 

Or so they were told.

A nightmare you could not awake from. A nightmare that you live day and night.

Watching your family and friends and the man across the street who would wave to you good morning with a loaf of bread in the nap of his elbow, slowly becoming extinct with a single breath of smoke in their lungs.
Children forgetting once happy times with mornings filled with laughter and play pretend.
Families being separated, killed and stripped of their humanity.
A girl known as Anne,
hidden behind a bookcase with barely any room to stand, filled with terror listening to bombs going off and destroying houses and local bistros.
Thousands and thousands of innocent people being starved and punished for no reason that comes to mind. Being robbed and beaten.
Men being forced into guards or death would become of their families.
This is a time none shall never forget. The faces of children and newborns being ripped from tearful mothers. Faces of the elderly and the ill. Images of families holding hands as firearms trigger with a loud noise that echoes off the gas chambers.
Never will we forget the man that brought many to excruciating pain and abrupt destruction.
Never will we forget how he glowered in fear and cowardliness as he tested a pill on his trusted advisers.
Being tortured for years on end. Sunken bodies on the riverbed tied with a brick around their neck.
Their lungs drowning in toxic clouds.
Bodies and minds being ripped apart with every cruel smile tingling from his lips.
Many asking why? Why us?
We ask the same.


The oxygen tasting of ashes and deceit.
Smoke rising from firearms which went off in the night, clouding your vision.
Blood and bodies covering the cement floors.
Mountains of shoes and ripped clothing rose lower than corpses.
Smiles of relief and sorrow painting on the faces of the undead.
Prayers being answered once more.


A father of a family that perished greatly.
A room that once held hushed whispers and scared whimpers.
But beating hearts of his beloved friends, his wife, and children. His precious daughter who wanted nothing but to make a difference in the world and publish her work.
Torn pages out of books scattered the attic floor.
A diary being recovered out of the dust.


Pictures of unforgotten persons.
Stories of horror being told each year.
The air no longer smudged with intoxicating sadness and burning smells that stick to the fibers of your nose.
No longer do they suffer in pain.
No longer.

Recovery

I'll never forget that night. The night that changed my life.

I cannot tell you how many times I wish I was dead or how many moments devoted to creating art with a sharp object on my body as if it were a canvas.

I was convinced no one would ever know. That no one cared. I was convinced no one would get hurt with the exception of me. 

Well, I was wrong.

That night still haunts me to this day. 

I still wake up in terror, paralyzed from what happened. 

I will never forget the faces of my loved ones. I will never forget what my older brother said to me that night and the tears in his eyes with red puffy stained cheeks. "Don't you _____ leave me." That line and his hug stuck to me like glue. 

This is not a story of sadness. This is not a story with a cherry on top.

It is simply a story of recovery. 

More than I like to admit I have relapsed. Foolishly I use to think those two words; recovery and relapse were meant for drugs, alcohol, and pornography. 

I will never forget the many times my friends grabbed my arm gently and turned it over exposing my godly creation. Either followed with sadness and teary eyes, fingers lightly pressing on my scars like piano keys, or light kisses. 

To this day I still wonder if I would be missed by friends and teachers and the students at my schools or if it will just be another sadden day with church clothes and forced kindness towards others then the next day will be as if I never existed. Of course I never want anyone to be sad over me. I still wonder. I still wonder if students knew who was truly writing this would they sign out and never read my blog again. 

I'll never forget the road I went down and the people that dragged me with them and I let them. I do not blame anyone but myself. 

Whenever I begin to grab an object flashes of suppressed colors and scenes as if from a movie. Faces of loved ones that mean so much to me come to mind. 

I promised to be a better me. 

I know what that means now. 

Your question? Does it get better? 

Your answer. I'm still alive. So are you. 

Stay strong, you are beautiful. If you are a boy you are beautiful as well. I believe in you. Hold on. 

My crayons

I remember when boys and girls had cooties. I remember when scrunchies and overalls with high ponytails were my favorite. I remember when I didn't have a care in the world. Where weight, height, age, race, disabilities did not matter. I remember when the definition of love was love. I remember when the only thing I was scared of was the monster hiding in my closet or beneath my bed. When cellphones were folded up Capri Sun juice pocket; the straw as the antenna. The whole world was in my backyard and the safety of my neighborhood. I've gone to Egypt, Congo, Brazil, China, Nevada in one day without rest. Scissors and knives were used for paper and grownups. 

I remember those tea parties with my teddy bears and Barbie dolls. 

I remember when everything was simple. 

When every scribble you made was ice cream and A worthy instead of an scowl and lecture for making a lumpy circle. The teachers were always kind and never grumpy. There was nap time, play time, snack time, story time, sharing time. Any kind of time was the best time. 

But soon crayons became calculators, story time became study sessions, cooties became getting too involved at a young age. Imagination and creativity withered and faded away slowly churning into logic and responsibility. 

We are expected to act as adults but are not taken seriously. 

They tortured us and scared us for fifteen hard years then expect us to choose a career.

 I remember when I loved myself.

When I didn't look away from the mirror disgustedly. When I didn't constantly worry what other girls or boys thought of me and how I looked. I never worried about making friends. It was as simple as saying "hi, do you want to be friends?" Then all of a sudden you are best friends laughing and telling jokes, skipping down the hallways and swinging at the same time. I remember when it was easy to talk to grownups about what was happening with your emotions. 

Never did I wish I was dead or gone. Never did I wonder if other kids hated me. But I grew up. They stripped me of my freedom, my creativity, my ablility to be my own creative self and stripped me of my colorful crayons and teddy Bears. Then they handed me a new identity and set of organized rules of what I can and can't do. What was right and what was wrong. Papers began to be marked with red and my parents scolding faces. Kids began to be mean and cruel. Teachers began to pick you out and look down at you. I grew up. And so did you.

Why can't we be like children, not care of what others think? Be creative and free? 

I don't even know who I am...

Nothing breaks a being more than questioning who they are.

While trying to ignore what they should be.

That is where I am..

I hate to disappoint you.

You ask, who I am.

Well, who am I?

I couldn't answer that if I tried. But what I do know is what soul my human possess.

Who I am ?

I am the girl who sits in the back of the classroom. Head bowed as if I were to pray to a God. Headphones in, music on full.

I am the girl who cries to the moon when no one is watching.

I cringe and sustain my putrid thoughts as a simple object appears on the TV screen.

I am the person who craves to be noticed by the teacher and to be patted on the back.

I am the girl who dreads to be called on by the teacher.

I have a monster growing inside me, begging to break free. To bounce from wall to wall, tearing every happiness the walls contain.

I've seen things I wish I could erase with the snap of my fingers; but I. I am no angel.

But I am no devil.

I am a girl who tries to be avoided. But wants to be heard.

You will see me with my face towards the ground and my mind in the clouds.

With music blaring through my soul, with my hood caped over my forehead trying not to bump into anyone.

I am the soul that aches to be among the stars who shine so bright.

Never care how bright the other stars are.

Who am I?

I am the girl who's name you have forgotten as soon as I left the room.

I am the girl who hides behind baggy clothes and poetry.

Wondering if I will ever be brave enough to speak to the world.

I am the girl who relates to adults more than kids her own age.

I, I am the girl who will always smile back at you while passing through the hallway.

I am not the girl who tends to reach out to strangers unless dire.

I am not the girl who likes to talk about herself or her problems.

I am not the girl who will invite you and vile you with poison dripping from my tongue.

I am not the girl who will take a risk without ripping my hair out and cry with panic.

Who am I?

I don't know..

...

Who am I?

I am the girl...