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Samantha M Breton

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Warren, MA, US

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Butterflies

by

Samantha M Breton

Laying here, we whisper,
The things that we long for
And these feelings so strong
I didnít know how to tell you
But you made it easy for me to say
I told you that I loved you
And you didnít go away

So this is the last time I will cry
While all these happy endings never die
The pain in my stomach
When you held me last night
Wasnít the pain that I felt when he hurt me last time
It was good
It was butterflies

I have never truly felt the way I do when Iím with you
I feel like nothing can ever hurt me
Like nothing can ever go wrong
You are my happy ending
And this is my song

So this is the last time I will cry
While all these happy endings never die
The pain in my stomach
When you held me last night
Wasnít the pain that I felt when he hurt me last time
It was good
It was butterflies


Dreaming

by

Samantha M Breton

This is not how I write.
Doing this is like trying to make my mother understand this teenage life.
Now here I am making this up.
Trying to make this all make sense.
Poems donít make perfect sense, I guess.
But isnít that how life is?
Nothing makes sense.
No one understands.
Life is imaginary.
This life is my entire dream.
Am I sleeping?
I have to be, canít you see?
This is not who I am.
Only when I am around you, I start to fall down.
As if the floor just disappears,
An "Alice in Wonderland" world,
That I cannot escape from.
There is no one to wake me up.
Is anyone there?
Wake me up.

Words For It

by

Samantha M Breton

I wish I could speak your language,
And find out what you feel,
I would wrap your wrists with bandages,
I would heal your bleeding wounds.
"Iím here," my words would say,
"Everything is going to be ok."
I would hold you all night long,
I would never let you go.
I wish I could speak your language,
And see,
And feel,
And know,
I wish I could speak your language,
And heal your bleeding wounds.

Words For It

by

Samantha M Breton

I wish I could speak your language,
And find out what you feel,
I would wrap your wrists with bandages,
I would heal your bleeding wounds.
"Iím here," my words would say,
"Everything is going to be ok."
I would hold you all night long,
I would never let you go.
I wish I could speak your language,
And see,
And feel,
And know,
I wish I could speak your language,
And heal your bleeding wounds.

What is it that makes us love?

by

Samantha M Breton

What is it that makes us love? I like to question it sometimes, although I know you cant explain it. Itís a feeling; a very deep one, one you can share with some one special. Sure I say, "I love you" to everyone, friends, and family. But thereís a certain kind of love Iím talking about, a kind that hurts, a kind that almost makes me sick. Some days I think I would be lost without it, and others I want nothing to do with it. Iíve come to find that every time I think I have mastered this "love" thing, I only find myself still searching for the real meaning. I only find myself empty.
I have lost something recently that I thought was love, but I have come to find that at the time I was trying to hard to create it. Love canít be created; it has to be something that was there from the start. Love is different for everyone, some people think of it as a "fairytale", and some donít even think of it at all, as anything. I believe that love is something deep, dark, hidden inside for no one to truly find. Maybe the love I have been searching for is hidden, in a hole somewhere, maybe even a hole in my heart, that I have dug myself. And I need to dig deep inside myself to get it.
I feel sometimes that there is no hope for love; maybe there is no such thing as love. Maybe its something we, as human beings, really did create, not knowing exactly what we were creating. So all this time I thought I was creating it myself, someone beat me to the process. Or maybe love is evil, and is only out to hurt everyone that feels it, well thinks they feel it. Yeah thatís it, its evil, and I want nothing to do with it. At least for today, at least for now.

RED

by

Samantha M Breton

Red is the color of love
It is freshly cut roses and the feeling of warmth from the morning sun.
Red is the straw in my lemonade and tastes like strawberries picked fresh.
It smells like the summer fire we had when we went camping
And sounds like the cardinals that morning.
Red feels like my loversí soft touch,
And looks like the eyes that have deceived me so many times in the past.
Red makes me stop and think about that I have done, and what I am about to do.
Red is the color of love.