If you asked any of my peers from the schools I went to
From elementary up through high about me
You would possibly be surprised as to how many
Never even knew my face.
My name.
The fact that I even existed.

So…..forgotten was I, that I didn’t even show up
In yearbooks.
Though I had my picture taken every year.

A mere six months after high school,
And the people who did know me have
Mostly forgotten.
Say my name, and they may recognize it briefly
However that’s as far as that recognition will go.
Only a name.
Even then they’ll be uncertain.

I have no redeeming qualities that would
Come to mind nor imagination.
I was just a sheep, following the herd.
And yet, I’m always lost to vague memories
Of things that likely never happened.

Often the only way to even be noticed
Was to do something considered wrong.
Crazy. Immoral.
And then I would be told that if I wanted attention,
That I was going about it all wrong.
That doing as I had been,
Being invisible,
Was the right –no…correct- way to get it.

If you ask the teachers and principles, they’d all only say I
Was a “problem child.”
Yet, I never did drugs or such things
And never got into fights.
The only time I was a “problem” was when I tried
To change my own situation through means that
People would actually pay attention to.

With public schools,
It takes violence and immorality to get things to change,
For people to finally listen to what you are saying.
Now, I’m not promoting such things.
However in my experience
Diplomatic talks have never actually accomplished anything.
At least not in regards to dealing with adults.
Whether you’re eighteen or eight,
Adults will likely ignore your existence till you
Make them listen.

These people, with their ignorance and stiff minded ways,
Are why our societies and governments are so corrupt and immovable.
Even when you find a person who listens just a little bit,
They never really hear what you say.

So when people say I had so much potential,
So much to live for,
All they’re doing is lying to themselves
And saying they had no part in any of it.
That they were always there for me to talk to,
Except they really weren’t ever there.

Either way, no one really listened to what I had to say.

I'm wide awake, with this screamin' in my head
fairies dancing in my stead.
Body over-heating, I just need to get away.
All I want is to be free again,
running with the wind and taking flight.
But instead, I'm being held down by these chains
and struggling to break free.
And now again,
I'm lost with all the things that I
left behind so long ago.
All I want is to be free again,
one day I'll fly away and leave this all behind
to a yesterday that no longer exists.
These screams will stop and the fairies will fall,
no longer will I be surrounded by these lies.
And this emptiness inside will disappear.
No regrets for the choices I have made,
only for the ones that never had the chance to be made.

I am an artist who is lost within the echoes of their thoughts
and wandering in the darkness of their clouded mind.
I often wonder when I'll escape from this black pit
known as my past and present.

The Christmas tree is lit
a talent show begins.
I am next.
I speak and read
a poem I call "Hope."
The audience applauds.
Others go up and
some come back down.
Some leave.
Singing love songs,
making jokes,
they perform in various ways.
I am next again,
for the second and
the last time.
I sing of greed,
war, violence, and cruelty.
When I am finished
there is silence.
Complete, heavy, prolonged.
And then,
applause breaks out.
Loud, enveloping, appreciated.
Two others goes up.
And then,
it is over.

Stuck inside a box of glass
surrounded by mirrors
and only seeing reflections of myself,
unable to see or know the outside world.

Feeling the stares of unknown,
invisible passerby.
Being viewed from every side and
angle, except below.
My time is frozen,
always the same,
while reality goes ever faster onwards.
Society comes and goes, but I cannot leave.

Trapped in this cage of glass
alone and isolated
yet surrounded by the world.

An endless vortex of uncertainty.

In this bleak room
with almost darkness all around me
fading with time as both moon and
lamplight filters through,
I think about the things I'll never have.

The other people here say
I will one day have these things,
say that I only think this way
because of my supposed disorders.

I disagree, but instead I say
that both ideas are side-effects of dying.
Everything is.

Depression, ADHD, Borderline Personality
Disorder, and many other 'disorders,'
as well as other, more 'normal' things,
are side-effects of dying.

Even the act of being alive is a side-effect of dying.