I might be mad and I might be hurt but I refuse to ignore you. I will not turn away and flip my hair and stare impudently at you with lips cold as ice and face as hard as stone - No, you won't even know I'm hurt and mad and sore. All you need to do is mold another brick, brick by brick, onto those walls I tried so hard to break down. All you need to do is continue on in your laughter at my jokes and never see that this heart has learnt its lesson and cut all those ties with the people that never really cared anyway. All you need to do is be yourself.



Its not your fault, its mine. I'll take the blame for everything and I'll accept all that you have to say. It was always my fault anyway, wasn't it? If I hadn't. If I didn't. If I had done. If I.



So I'll take my hurts and count them one by one. I'll write them out because words help me to understand and words written can be erased, but words spoken are permanent. I'll write out all your words spoken and I'll erase them, maybe they'll be erased from my mind as well, but somehow I don't think so. I'll read the words I write, erase, and write some more. The grip of the pencil brings a sense of familiarity, the wood so reassuringly sturdy - but then again, a pencil is so easily broken by a fall. So what else is there to be said of the strongest of all structures when even a reliable pencil sculpted from the pulp of a majestic tree can be broken in a split second? But I still write because I'm so full of



wistful thoughts and the

twisting of words and the

blowing of the wind and



I will still continue to br



ea



the