Wrong Stories

Questions I don’t want to askAnswers I don’t want to knowDecisions I don’t want to makePlaces I don’t want to goA life I lived in retrospectChoices that I should have madeChances had but left untakenRegrets untouched until todayActing brave while being frightenedBelieving through vast waves of doubtHold my tongue and quell my urgesQuiet, where I want to shoutLooking back, I know the answersFuture times remain unknownDecid...

The path was clear The way well lit No surprises no unexpected twists The choices were clean Simply black and white I dutifully followed Stepped well within the lines Then came turns bends and bumps The choices got harder The way seemed lost I found myself muddling through I could not see the light I did not know what was right Every choice affects the next If only I knew what the future would hold But that would be too e...

The smell of oranges and roses never ceases to set me back into those years in which I thought I knew happiness. The two together are strange: their scents mingle and twist and frolic in a dance of the beautiful and the divine that I cannot find anywhere else. They weave around each other like daisy chains, flow in and out like calm streams, turn and twist and braid like the hair of a pretty girl I knew once upon a dream....

I have a weakness for pretty girls named Isabel. Not Isabelle, with two l’s slashing through words like paper cuts, nor Isabella, who’s softer sound makes me think of meek and doe-eyed children. Isadora is acceptable, but not preferable. Isabel is the perfect blend of all of these, a gentle tongue-caressing name that swirls around my mouth like pink candy, leaving the taste of sweet sugar on my lips and the scent of child...

She makes me so frustrated it’s almost inhuman. I hate that she smells like strawberries and winter and her complexion is the color of rosebuds in springtime. I hate that she looks just as beautiful in my NFL t-shirt as she does in makeup and a Prada dress. I hate the way her blonde hair glimmers in the sunlight like gold. I hate the way her sea-blue eyes sparkle when she gets happy. I hate the color of her eyes, blue and...

There were days When I had no other ways to get out This pain I only knew how to cause more Damage to myself and before you know it I had the knife and my skin was splitI tried hard to hide but couldn’t defend my guard I was weak Thus the tears that strolled my cheeks every night Crying over wrong and right I can’t show the pain the truth it has to goAnd this is supposed to be old Sitting in fire and still feeling cold Su...