Thank you Twenty One Pilots for all you've done for the broken people.
You've cured some of the ones who have tried their suicidal session.
You've shown us that you know what it feels like to suffer.
You've told us that the hardest nights will get brighter when the sun comes up, and we can try again.
You've been a friend when we've needed one the most.
You've described the destructive thoughts as metaphors that we can find hope from.
You've combined ukulele music with screamo and made it art.
You've given us lyrics to find the motivation to keep going.
You've told us to stay alive, so that's what we do.
Stay alive |-/
Nov 23, 2016
Nov 23, 2016 at 2:08 PM UTC
Uncle Doug,
Today was a day that I hoped for, but also dreaded for.
I've been hoping to see you one last time,
but I've dreaded knowing that it might be the last.
Today I saw you at your worst.
The cancer was eating all the good things inside of you.
The one thing that cancer did not take was your smile.
It was painfully small, but still a smile.
Today I told you that I loved you.
I've meant to say it more in all of these years.
But at least you heard it again today.
Today was the last day that I'll be able to hug you.
I'll never forget how you squeezed me a little tighter before we let go.
I'll never forget.
I'll never forget.
Yours truly,
Marissa
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 1:55 AM UTC
On that perfect night, my high beams glowed into the foggy distance.
I held down a button to let the cool air blow my hair out the window.
Of course I am harmonizing to my choral music but my mind is somewhere else.
I knew I had to keep my eyes on the road, but the full moon that shone so gracefully through the rearview mirror was impossible not to gaze upon.
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 1:47 AM UTC
Being suicidal
is like driving
up to a yellow light.
Always making
quick decisions
whether to stop
or to keep going.
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 1:43 AM UTC
A pen running out of ink
assisted me with getting out my thoughts
on to paper.
These thoughts aren't really a poem.
Unless someone comes around
thinking it's a masterpiece without
a signature.
But still I could.
I could sign my name at the bottom
at top speed
like signing my life away to this very pen.
This pen I hold
that I probably found on the side
of a road
has helped me through a lot.
This pen has helped me
pass a nursing test.
This pen has helped me write a dozen speeches
to give in front of church.
This pen has helped me from
taking too many pills
or making a checkerboard
on my wrist.
This pen.
So simple
yet so ordinary.
Aug 18, 2016
Aug 18, 2016 at 12:32 AM UTC
"Make the most of your time being young."
"Time goes so fast."
"I would do anything to be your age again."
I hear these statements multiple times everyday at work when the the residents ask my name, age, where I live, and if I have a boyfriend.
From what I can see, they clearly wish that they could turn back time, or be doing something different with their lives.
They wish that they could be me again.
But they have no idea how much I want to be them.
Anyone but this.
Mary said, "Honey, never grow up."
"Live and learn," Elaine says.
But instead I say, "Delpha, I wish to age 60 years tonight just to be you."
Aug 18, 2016
Aug 18, 2016 at 12:24 AM UTC
The other side of the bed is empty. Next to me, no one.
I think of the comfort that they could give me.
But yet I am alone.
The silence strangles me.
And my words, nothing heard.
I sit in the night with nothing to think about, thinking about nothing.
The room is cold.
My heart is cold.
A blanket of hope is what I need for warmth.
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 1:00 AM UTC
Midnight.
Oh, the midnight wave.
The wave of sadness that
takes many casualties.
A depressing thought turns
my eyes to glass
and my heart to stone.
I'm trapped.
A wall in the tropical jungle of dispar
that I can't climb over.
There is no use to call for help
for there is no one in this storm.
The darkness envelopes
my feelings.
And soon I feel the
slightest comfort.
I may be alone
but I look to the
sky for my future
destinations.
Oh, the midnight wave.
Midnight.
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 12:56 AM UTC
She wishes she could pick up a paintbrush and copy her visions onto a blank canvas.
For she wants to paint what she feels, because words just seem to fail.
She wishes that her painting was a masterpiece.
For she wants to be known for something.
She's wishes that one day she would be understood.
For people say that her eyes are in full color, while she sees the world in only black and white.
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 12:51 AM UTC