The voices in my head are crazy they yell at me
Bark at me scream at me I guess their all the same
I try not to listen it doesn't work they scream
My name, I scream "STOP IT""STOP IT PLEASE ""WHAT DID I DO WRONG" they torment me call out to me
Drive me, crazy what to do what to do
SCREAM!!!!!!!! SCREAM!!! SCREAM!!!!
I look into the fire and see my future
I'm burning, dying and the voices laugh at me, they carry a tone, a tone of jolly, and cruelty,  
The voices yell at me, scream at me
The voices **** me
I can't  be saved
I'm already dead
Their is silence

There are always people
who will want to pretend nothing ever happened
who will want to pretend that they didn't drive nails through your wrists
and that they don't see you bleeding dry through the gaping holes
There are always people
that say they want you to go far
and they tell you that if you dig deep enough, you'll dig a hole to China
but stand above ground, throwing dirt back in like a burial service
And there are people like myself,
who forget what they're writing about half way in
who have gaping holes in their wrists that were never from a cross
and bottomless holes in the pit of their stomach
that never led to China.

My apartment no longer holds the same meaning in my young heart as it once did.
I can no longer find peace in this foreign place, for an intruder has well, intruded.
My things are no longer mine they are ours as I now hate to put it.
I no longer feel safe! I stay awake at night praying to dear God, keep all evil away from me!!
Destroy these thoughts of ****** and suicide that have now taken over my mind!
He could force his self onto me just because he wants to!!
I am only a young adult, my life has not yet began.
He has a dagger, hands itching to slit my throat!
Please, I have much more words that yearn to be written, and if it just so happens that I can officially be deemed as a poet, well I must live to see that.

Do you know how many times (I) have cried over you?
I should be asleep at 2 am, not writing (*******) poetry for you.
I can not tell you how much I (hate) that I love you.
Why can't I forget (you)?

The clock strikes 3:30 and the pit behind the school opens.
We feast on the smell of burning skin and sunscreen.
There is chaos as instruments are strewn across the back room,
No exits and the doors are blocked.
My eyes slide past his but I'm too burned out to care.
Freshmen are the worst,
Insisting on acting as if
They are four year olds.
Not a second late, for Whit is never late.
I have lost feeling in my legs
Still I have perfect
Technique just as he does. Water.
Water does not have an existence in this world.
Heat and sun have taken over.
Our tuba players have given up,
There they lay down in the burning
Grass. He never complains.
As I'm close to my breaking point,
Air no longer passes my
Lips and not one note escapes my keys.
The perfect string of notes and rhythm
Sound from my left. He never missed
A note.
March it back,
March it back,
March it back sixteen counts.
An endless routine.
Opening set.
These single words are bitter sweet.
In ten minutes I am free to go home
And write poetry about him.