When you're more sick than you let on people don't expect you to crumple into a ball, choking on nothing, gasping for the precious air we take for granted. Sometimes death just likes to stare at me from across the room. Forcing the air out of my lungs causing every breath to feel like glue.  I've gotten very acquainted with death. The thought of death has become my home when my real home killed me inside. Things have changed though my dearest, Death. I have made a home within these new walls. I am at home with these new people that care about me more then "life long friends" ever did. When I started coughing I heard how scared you sounded. It finally hit me how much you cared. I made a silent vow to get better because for the first time in forever I had someone who would miss me when I was gone. I suddenly had a whole crowd of concerned friends who only wanted me to heal. I look at these people I live with and realize that no matter how lonely I feel I will never have to suffer alone. I might come from a broken home but I finally found a place where I belong.

My day ******.  Walk down the street and flash smiles at familiar faces.  Deep down though you feel that its nothing.  People walking past, keeping up their appearance, never letting down their guard or letting people know their true self.  No one walks past really caring how your day went, what you are going through, or what is motivating you to keep going.  They walk past flash their fake smiles and keep on with their day because just like your day, their day ****** too.  It seems like we are on a hamster wheel never-ending, continuous, and just draining.  Each day we get on and wear ourselves out, for what?  Searching for answers, seeking purpose, guarding our emotions, and hiding our true selves.  Why can't we just open up?  Why not just let loose and just say whatever, who cares, eff it, because in the end does it really matter?  Do the small talk and the fake smiles really make a difference for other people in our lives? Or are we putting on appearances that are unnecessary and relentless and simply just exhausting? We must make other people's days while our days ****, day in and day out.  We don't need a world full of Oscar the Grouches, but why can't we just try to be real and find true human connection.  The more we seek this, the less happy we all become, so why not just stop acting and start being real, so you can help other people realize that their is possibly a light at the end of their tunnel, just like their could be for you.  Who knows, your sucky day could just be the start of something great, or not...but you won't know until you push through and make it your journey, your adventure, your week, your day, or even just your little moment.  So when you think your life *****, know that issa mood. -ZZ

Night time falls revealing the grandeur of a vast kingdom. As the sun slinks silently and sullenly to sleep a new world burst to life. The stars dance across the sky, one by one gracefully twinkling to life with the music of the night. The wind sprints across the plain playfully chasing the amber waves. They laugh and play transforming the peaceful pasture into a lively landscape. As the world goes to bed imagination emerges and immerses the world into a dream. Clouds float peacefully meandering across the sky listening to the sweet melodies of a nocturnal sinfonietta. Crickets and owls harmonize happily under the moons silver rays. The world is at peace tonight. Finally I am at peace with it.

Sleep. Elusive sleep. It slithers around my throat tightening its grip. Forcing my eyes to sag. It drags me under as I desperately cling to consciousness. I claw at the edge of the void trying desperately yet fruitlessly because I am ripped from my realty and into the unknown. No. Not the unknown but rather the hideous crevices of my mind. I am slammed up against the wall chackled to my Id. I can hear the heavy, dragging footsteps of my repressed memories. My captors are my past. They are the pain I felt. They loom over me and suddenly I feel as if my reality is shattered and I’m back with him. I scream as I feel the bruises materialize to their old homes. I cry out as my skin splits itself open again old faded scars reinvigorated with the flow of blood across my skin. I curl into a ball questioning if the sweet release of morning wil ever come... Then I feel your hands. It makes me sick. those tools of torture that stripped me of my sanity and self worth. Those big grimy ******* hands that tore away parts of me piece by piece until all I was was afraid. Even now he’s controlling my future a puppet master of malicious intent. I want to cry. I want to scream. But mostly I just want to me okay again. I curl up into a ball and pray for morning. And when it comes I claw my way into reality. I wake up afraid and dead inside. I wake up having lost all the progress I have so tediously made. Sleep. My advisory in mental health heals my fatigue. Like some sick paradox. Sleep, oh how I hate you!! I guess I’ll see you tonight.

I let different boys touch me
Because I wanted to know
Even for a second
What it felt like to be loved
Even if the love was cheap
And it tasted like ***
Like the punchline to a joke
I never got because it was me

I let different boys have different parts of me
Parts they didn't deserve
But I offered up willingly because I couldn't give anything else
after you broke me
I was looking for different fingers
to place different pieces and hoping  the outcome
would be a masterpiece
Maybe one of them would find a way
to cover up the handprints you left all over me

I let different boys touch me because I had to prove to myself
you wouldn't be the only one
that these scars marking my body wouldn't define
my worth to be loved
I am not entirely sure  
you aren't the only one who could ever touch me without slightly  flinching

I let different boys touch me because that is all I have been taught
To be a joke
To be silent
To be ready to give until you have nothing left
- they keep leaving me and I am to scared to offer up anything more than my body to get them to stay

What defines a hero? Are they always good? Do they not have their messy pasts? They are hero’s because they focus their futures on helping people. You might focus too much on others and forget about yourself sometimes but every hero has a fatal flaw. You might not be a mighty warrior like Hercules or Superman but you focus on healing people. Healing their wounded souls. I think it’s because you’re hurting too. I always did like the relatable hero’s the best.