Quinn scribbles tainted emotions across thin layers of white paper. But to who? To someone who blinks once, sees her, and blinks again-just to make her disappear. To someone who sees her as a symbol of the ocean. To someone who thinks the ocean is disgusting and hideous, filled with trash and pathetic wandering fishes. To someone who believes that Quinn needs to be a size zero to be labeled as 'beautiful.' If she isn't, why in the world will anyone care to love her? She's disgusting. Worthless. An enormous sailboat that makes the world sink. But how long will it take until she sinks herself?

It is easy to lose yourself around the bright lights if you have got dark soul. Words are masterpieces carved from the blue of our souls and sprinkled with midnight regrets. All rights reserved. © DirectionerRia17 (#1 in poetry on 11/07/2016) (#8 in poetry on 18/01/2016) (#9 in poetry on 07/01/2016) (#1 in poetry, What's Hot section on 11/07/2016)

A young woman who was always the life of the party, quick to tell a joke, always smiling and happy, tragically dies at age 23. What her mother found after her death reflected a much different young woman, her poetry. Her words showed a young woman crying out to feel loved, wanted, beautiful and worthy. Struggling to accept herself as the wonderful, happy, beautiful young woman everyone else saw her as. Her words reflect the pain and torment she allowed another to cause her. It is her mother's most heart felt desire to reach even one young person struggling to accept themselves. To encourage them to open up and talk to someone, to know they are never alone, to know their feelings are validated. She also hopes to reach a mother that perhaps feels her daughter is perfect and completely in charge of her life, as mothers often do. After reading her poetry, hopefully it will facilitate conversation, confirm unconditional love and help to end words that a mother never hears. I am her mother and these are her words.

dear stray eyelashes, ladybugs, dark tunnels, wishbones, dandelions, pennies, shooting stars, 11:11, and birthday candles, when will you do your job?

Absurd may be the tale I tell Ill-suited to the marching times I loved the lips from which it fell So let it stand among my rhymes -John Keats. It is difficult to get a hold of what's going on inside my head. I do not talk much. Maybe that is why I find it so difficult to marshal my thoughts. When I put it out on paper, it somehow starts making a little sense. Sense calms me down. It tries to settle the chaos inside my head. Not too much, mind. 'Cause that scares me. Too much sense can get too boring too fast. I let the chaos rule my head. The whirlpool of words and voices makes me feel alive.