I don't even know if you could call this a poem...

I'm no good at writing, I promise.
But it seems the only way to breathe at times.
I feel sick,
all the time.
Not like a flu, but this feeling.
It weaves in and out of my veins.
Sometimes, coffee helps. I try that quite frequently.
Sometimes, crying helps. I do that a lot, too.
The feeling...it's emptiness.
I've only known it since you left.
October 21st, was the day it started to grow.
I miss you. 

Growing up means...

I've lost myself, and everything I was.
Everything I stood for, everything I believed in,
gone.



Lost in a colorful, blinding streak of chaos.
There's nothing left, just a cliche teenager,
with a dangerous disregard for consequences.

We're all the same, really.
So rebellious, we praise ourselves for our "nonconformity"
We're all so "different" from everyone else.

Growing up is realizing your unoriginality,
realizing you were brainwashed to believe you were something special,
and realizing you're not. 

HI GUYS

I just made this blog for Creative Writing. I'm going to be posting some originial writing and rough drafts.
The idea is to create a "writing community" for our school.
Cool.