You were You...

Maybe it’s because your eyes still make my stomach feel fuzzy, or maybe it’s the way I get lost inside them. Or maybe it’s because I can still remember the first time I saw them. Maybe it’s the way you look at me with them, or it could be because I fell in love with them. But I can’t look away…

I can’t put my finger on it…

It could be the way you hold me up when the whole world starts to crash down. It could be because you give me a “peace” that I’ve never felt before. It’s like when I’m in your arms, the whole world goes away. My parents, school, people…The only thing that matters is the steady beat of your heart. Thump…Thump…thump. As I start to drift off to the clouds. I realize our hearts are somehow beating as one. THUMP…THUMP...THUMP.

Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s it. Or wait…


Maybe it’s the way you smile at me. That smile that makes me melt, and makes Big strong Mike into your little teddy bear. Or it could be the how you make my smile come out of hiding, when no one else can find it. Or the way you actually bright up the room when you walk in. Or the way you make me laugh uncontrollably for no reason.

No...There’s another reason, I know it.

It could be because I can be myself around you, and I can call you my best friend, and my girlfriend. Maybe it’s because I can tell you anything, and that I can act like a total fool around you. And you think I’m the cutest thing in the world.

Maybe just maybe…

It could possibly be because you still look beautiful when you cry, or when you have bed head. And maybe it’s because you look amazing in sweats, and a t-shirt. And it could maybe be that I want to fall asleep next to you, more then anything in the world. Maybe it’s because every time you say my name I smile. Or how you make me feel all fuzzy inside when you touch me.

Possibly…


I think it might be because I don’t want to stop talking about you, or how I could go on forever. Or because the only reason I wrote this is to make you smile/ I don’t know what you did; I don’t know when it happened. But I fell in love with you. And that love has been growing and growing for almost 7 months now. I think you’re perfect…


I got it.

I know why I love you, Lindsay Davis. I love you simply because, you are you. Now, don’t ever forget that baby…

Wednesday, November 4th, 2009 <3

Youre so..

Retarded? Why do we use this as an insult? I mean if you think about it, people who are actually Mentally Retarded are the happiest people on earth. And I say that in the kindest way possible. They don’t have to worry about the war, or how oils gushing into the ocean. They don’t even have to worry about fitting in, or impressing the opposite sex. All they have to do is be themselves.

So someone calls you retarded, thinking there calling you stupid. Yeah, there IQ isn’t 120, but a bet you a million dollars that they are happier then you. And they appreciate the little things in life more then you, and they probably have better friends then you. I mean there with the same kids a lot, and they probably trust them more then I trust any of my friends. Now I’m not saying that Special Ed kids have it made, and there lucky. I’m just saying we should stop making fun of them; they have an advantage over us that is priceless. Happiness…

Mirror,Mirror on the wall...

What if mirrors could tell stories…? Think about how many times you look in the mirror everyday. You could walk into the bathroom crying, and clean yourself up one day. And the next day, go in the same bathroom and see if your hairs okay. What about the mirror in your room. It could tell you what days you looked beautiful, and what days you looked beautiful, but you didn’t think you did. It could tell you how in 7th grade you wore those clothes, and did your hair the way everyone else did to fit in. And how in 8th grade you realized that you were you, and they were they. And that you took an extra 20 minutes to get ready every morning to impress that certain someone. It could tell you how you looked into it and cried, sick with yourself because you couldn’t impress them… It might even tell you how you looked when you were yourself, in sweatpants and a sweatshirt, with your hair lost and tangled on a cold Sunday afternoon. But if it told you that, it would also have to tell you how alive your eyes were, and how lost your eyes seemed as you tried to dress up the next day, for people who only knew the person you weren’t. Maybe it would even tell you who you are. After all, you looked at yourself inside it every day. Maybe that’s why you aren’t supposed to break a mirror, if you break a mirror. You might just lose the only thing that knows you… You might just lose your story.